


Patrick's Term

by queen_kumquat



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: 1980s, First Day of School, Gen, London, New School, comprehensive school, set after RAH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 97,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_kumquat/pseuds/queen_kumquat
Summary: Following some decent O-level grades from Broomhill Tutorial, Patrick starts sixth form at a London day school - the local comprehensive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous prompt from 2016:  
> In RAH Patrick suggests he could go to Colebridge Grammar to do his A-levels but his father won't let him because he would probably bunk off to go hawking all the time. But what if Mr Merrick has the bright idea of letting him go to whichever state school is closest to their London home? Especially if one of his colleagues points out how good it will look to the electorate that a Conservative MP is educating his own son within the state system. Without knowing London very well, I imagine the Merrick's house is in a well-off, middle-class area so the local school could be a decent school, not a tough, inner-city comp. And I really don't want a story about Patrick meeting the sort of kids who deal drugs and bring knives to school - we know how messily that might end. I am interested in seeing Patrick in an ordinary co-ed school, in an environment which is made up of at least 50% girls (and not boy-starved Marlow girls either).

“If you really think so, Helena. It would certainly go down well politically...”  
Anthony Merrick churched his fingers as he considered the implications. “At least it's a Catholic school.”  
  
His wife stood up, hands on hips, knowing she had, as usual, won the argument. “The fact that it's free isn't to be sniffed at, either. What with that stately pile of yours needing yet more vital repairs... Are you _sure_ you won't let it be developed into apartments?”  
She knew Anthony's line on this, from regular arguments over the last two decades, and she was content to leave him to it, odd bit of ribbing aside. At least, now, he was an established MP. They could continue living in Hampstead almost all the time, and their son could benefit from the excellent local schools. St Luke's had a strong sixth form, and an increasing reputation as a stellar example of the comprehensive system – _It’s in the Evening Standard; it must be true,_ she had remarked disingenuously to her husband. The school had been delighted to offer a place for Patrick, even before learning of his excellent O-level grades achieved via Broomhill Tutorial College.  
  
They told him the next morning. “No Latin?” Patrick moaned, sounding aghast, upon reading the prospectus. He wasn't, actually, that upset, certainly not over Latin, but all the guff about a ‘thriving Catholic community’, ‘united in living the gospel’...  
  
“Apparently you can do 16th Century as a History option, along with English and French - though there's Philosophy and Epistemology as an alternative if you really wanted...?”  
“Goodness, no!” That sounded like a hotbed of pretentious wankers. “English, French, History will do fine. I suppose I'll be getting the train two stops to get there?” He put his fingers on the A to Z, indicating from Hampstead Heath to near the school.  
“I'm told the buses are more reliable.”  
“More frequent, I suppose. OK, Ma, let's get this uniform shopping over and done with.”  
“It's only a blazer, tie and some jumpers, really. You've got white shirts and black trousers and shoes already. I could fetch them myself?”  
  
Patrick could tell his mother was trying to make this – _another –_ school transition easier for him, but as it was all failing to reassure him anyway, he might as well go with, and ensure the new clothes fit. Possibly wangle some purchases on his own account? Or at least coffee and cake in a Hampstead café afterwards.  
  
It turned out that the uniform supplier was not John Lewis, nor another suburban gentleman’s outfitters from the last century, but a store on an industrial estate in Willesden, the likes of which he was confidently sure his mother had never set foot in before. They queued outside in drizzle, among dozens of other women, some resembling Ma's slumming it, stoically; a large number clearly Irish, headscarves outnumbering umbrellas, several chatting away to anyone who would listen; about a third with skin in shades of brown to black, which was _certainly_ different from his previous schools. Most had an eleven-year-old in tow, possibly an extra, older child too.  
  
As they finally got inside the metal shed, an argument was being had across the counter.  
“I'm sorry, but without any record of your order...”  
“No, you can't be doing that! Lying, you are. You think you can be lying to _me_...”  
“I'm sorry, madam, but unless your name comes up on the system,”  
“Ah, get to fuck! You can't talk to me like that! You can't talk to me..”  
  
Patrick could tell his mother was scared, so out of her comfort zone, tiny tense areas across her impassive face. He was pretty confident that he was more used to drunken fights around him than she was, having tested most of the pubs within an appropriate radius from home – _more than half a mile, less than three; calculate a) the area of the zone to be explored and b) the probability of this zone having a satisfactory establishment if there are an average of 11 pubs per square mile but only 40% of pubs reliably serve under-age drinkers. (4 marks)_ – and had found a strong correlation between those which would readily serve a polite quiet lad with no questions asked, and those in which lairy arguments were common and, sometimes, violent.  
  
“It’s our turn, Ma.” Flushed, Mrs Merrick gave her details to the clerk, who then departed to rummage in a back room.  
“Oh, don't mind her. Kicks off every year, she does, never bothers ordering. Gives us Irish a bad name, so she does. Patrick? Good name that, my husband was Patrick, Lord rest his soul...”  
Faced with a friendly garrulous Irishwoman, Helena was back on familiar ground, similar to her experience at Meriot Chase on fortnightly Sundays.  
“I'm sorry for your loss. Yes, we moved to London recently, so Patrick's going to St Luke's.” _Good gloss over the last three years, well done, Ma._ “Are your children there already?”  
“The children? Ah, my children! Two been and gone from Luke’s already, my eldest girl now entering sixth form, she is; our two young'uns there too, now. You'd think I'd be able to escape this madhouse, what with all the uniform we should have, but there's always more pieces they need, no matter how much laundry I do, there's never clean uniform in the press...”  
  
Helena smiled, bonding over the common experience of parenting teenagers. 'They grow so, don't they?”  
“Indeed they do, and all in different ways! I mustn't be keeping you now, but my Kathleen is doing English for sure, if you see her she's very friendly. She's thinking of science but loves her books! I'll be seeing you, pleasure to meet you. And you, Patrick.”  
  
Patrick, rather dazed, was relieved to find the uniform items fit; not too itchy, not too embarrassing. As a sixth-former he was exempt from the need for a PE kit unless he ended up on a team, but a swimming hat could be obtained later if he couldn't escape that fate, the only plausible risk of enforced sporting contribution. He started to look forward to a nice slab of cake in an approved café.  
  
His mother clicked as she checked her watch. “Oh dear, I need to get home for the plumber! But _you_ don't need to rush, and you must be starving,” - Patrick generally appreciated his mother's efforts to Understand The Young by assuming teenagers were invariably ravenous, which was close enough to truth to compensate for the times he actually wasn't - “so take this, and get yourself something first. And wasn't there a useful book you wanted, for English?”  
  
He took the proffered tenner with thanks, and sensed his mother’s relief as she returned to her runabout. He pondered where to go, thumbing his trusty mini London atlas that he kept in his coat pocket. Back to the Finchley Road, he guessed; there was a big Dillons there which should stock the requisite editions of Dracula and Canterbury Tales. It was round the corner from the school, too. He felt the need to look at it, albeit across the railings, to give a focus to his anticipatory nightmares. The rain had stopped, so he walked, saving the bus fare, small industrial units giving way to 30s semis and soon the Victorian grandeur of western Hampstead, larger houses on the back roads, red-brick and Art Deco mansion flats looking affronted by the modern shopping precinct dumped in their midst.  
  
The bookshop let him down. Stoker, yes, Chaucer in stock, no, though he could reserve one from on order. This meant money left in his hand. A parade of shabbier shops across the road from the mainstream stores included a greasy spoon; perfect.  
  
He perused the menus and checked his cash – he was sure all caffs valued efficiency in ordering and had no truck with insolvency, no matter where he was in the land. He entered, door bell jangling.  
“A'right?“ The dark patriarch behind the counter greeted him amiably.  
“Yeah... Can I have a bacon and fried egg bap, please? With tea?”  
The man called out incomprehensibly to a younger man behind him, who roused himself from his seat and set to frying more bacon. “We ain't got no baps here, love. Only butties.”  
The Londoner glottal stops meant Patrick took a moment to parse this, but the response from an older Sun reader across the room clued him in, “More's the pity!”  
He felt his cheeks burning, which the proprietor ignored. “Two forty, mate. I'll bring your tea right over. Sem! Two eggs in the butty, OK?”  
Sem nodded morosely and cracked a second egg into his pan.  
  
Patrick sat at a booth in the middle of the room, pulled out Dracula, thanked the man for his tea, and added three sugars. As Sem came to drop the butty on his formica table, he noticed a mass of curly hair on top of a teenage girl waving to get his attention, and looked over to her, fearing more humiliation.  
  
“Oi! You going St Luke's?”  
A denial came to his lips before he remembered that actually, he was. “How did you know?”  
She picked up her coffee and came to sprawl on the seat across the aisle from him. “Obvious, innit?”She saw his nerves and relented. “Bags from the uniform shop. Muddy green uniform recognisable anywhere. _And_ Dracula's on my A-level list. You doin' English?”  
  
“Yeah. And French and History, I think. You?”  
“Dunno yet, really. I want to do English ‘cos I love it and the teachers are brilliant, but I want to do maths and chemistry too, and people keep telling me I shouldn't do English with those, but I don't want to do physics...”  
“Further Maths, then? If you like the maths, I guess...?”  
She looked startled.  
“What?”  
“Just... Never thought of that. See, maths is pretty mixed, but Further... Well, it's all boys. Usually foreign boys. I don't know as I'd fit in...” The prospect of a brand-new start made Patrick uncharacteristically forthright, as he snorted at the suggestion. “Like anyone does? Fit in, I mean. Look at me, don't even know how to order a bloody bacon sarnie in London!”  
“Yeah, where're you from? Up north?”  
Patrick diplomatically hid a chuckle. “No. West Country... Dorset. But my dad got a job in London, so here we are. So do you go.. to St Luke's too?” He considered eliding the 'to', as she did; decided against.  
She nodded, mass of hair bouncing nearly into her cup. “Since first year. My big brothers did too, and the youngers are still there. It's OK. Teachers don't get on your case too much once you're older, if you're willing to work, anyhow. And all the lot what _don't_ want to work won't be there for sixth form, so yeah, should be OK. They _say_ they treat sixth form like adults, but Dom and Kev say that's more like expecting you to do everything yourself and 'set a good example to your juniors'.” She was clearly quoting a mistress – _teacher,_ he remembered hastily.  
  
Suddenly, he put all the facts together. “Is your name Kathleen?”  
“What of it?” Not just startled. _Defensive._  
“Just, I think I met your mum in the uniform shop... Two older brothers, two younger kids, doing English plus science, about to start Lower Sixth at St Luke’s...”  
She un-tensed, visibly. “It's a fair cop. Sorry, Mum don't half run on... She’s great, but talks _all_ the legs off donkeys! Yeah, I’m Kathleen. But I go by Kathy, obviously.”  
It was his turn to look startled. “Why, obviously? Kathleen's nice. I mean, so's Kathy...”  
“Seriously? It's _totally_ Irish. I know mum can't help her accent and I love her, but London, Irish, yeah?” Patrick tried to look intelligent, presumably failed. “People think IRA, or they think ‘stupid’. _You_ know. “ There was an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman...” I don't mind the jokes, but when it's teachers just writing off half the class for being Irish or ethnic... ‘Oh Kathy, you're doing so well _considering your background’_ , don't bother explaining to me how to get an A, but get the English lads in for extra bloody tuition... Sorry. Didn't mean to go off on one, there.”  
  
“Ah. Yeah.” There were Irish guys who worked on the Merrick estate – and, now Patrick came to think of it, there _were_ often comments, not _usually_ meaning to be nasty, about what one could expect from some of them. Of course some of them then _did_ exceed stereotype by being either somewhat simple, or exceptionally fond of their drink, or both...  
“So what's your name, then?”  
“Oh, sorry. Patrick.” They both chuckled ruefully at that.  
“You're not Irish, though, are you? Not a Pat, or a Paddy, neither? Oh, West Country, you said. What's your surname?”  
“Merrick. And please God, no Paddy or Pat! Unless it's Pat from my parents, they’re allowed... So I’m safe from anti-Irish feeling, I guess. Unless they lump Catholics all in together – no, surely not, it's a Catholic school, isn't it?”  
“Is now, yeah.”  
“What d'you mean, _n_ _ow_?  
“Well yeah, it's a Catholic school. Always was, but back when Dom and Kevin first went, it was the one you went to if you didn't get in anywhere else. So it got loads from our estate in Willesden, and the gypsy kids when they came, and then as it had space you got all the problem kids, all the new to this country lot, everyone who wasn't going to get qualifications at all let alone O's. And when other schools got more full, the Cee of Ee ones specially, then Luke's got more and more Irish, ‘cos Catholic, so, guilt by association: crap school, crap Irish. Or the other way round...  
  
“It's changed loads now – lots of Caribbean and Italian families moved nearby, so the traveller kids get sent somewhere else, near Wembley, I think. Don't think anyone can get in without being Catholic any more, not for first year. Technically, anyhow – half the teachers aren't, and most of them don't care what you believe. Though I suppose _both_ lots of teachers – Catholic and not - might throw a fit if someone went all trad and tried to push pre-Vatican 2 stuff. The old Latin mass and that. _What_?”  
For Patrick was suddenly choking on his roll and going a bit purple.  
“Oi, Eyan! Water?“  
The proprietor was already supplying a glass of water, presumably not wanting to lose a potential regular.  
Eyes watering, Patrick eventually managed to stammer out his thanks.  
“ _What?”_ Kathy repeated.  
“Ah.” Deep breath. “OK, then... Don’t laugh. I got expelled from my previous Catholic school, mostly ‘cos my dad and I supported the old Mass and rituals...”  
She laughed. “ _Seriously_?”  
“Yeah. Well, I was probably a bit rude too. And then it turned out my girlfriend – _ex_ -girlfriend – was ringing me most nights from her school's office, so they were getting billed... _Long-distance_... And _then_ she got caught pretending to read me an O-level maths question.”  
Kathy looked both amused and impressed.  
“The night before my O-level Maths...”  
“Oh, _shit_! But it must have been obvious, she were pretending, right?”  
Patrick shook his head, and grinned with that rare confidence of knowing he had a punchline in the bag.  
“No. _Because_ , the school secretary had spilled coffee on the envelope from the Exam Board and taken the papers out to check they were dry, and she left them on the desk. _Next to the phone.._.”  
  
Kathy clapped her hand over her mouth and winced. “What happened?”  
  
Patrick shrugged – it was so much in the past as to seem unreal. “Well, I was called and told I'd need to be escorted to school next day, just in case the Board might accept the paper – and just in case I fluked a C; maths was not my thing! Got to school, panicked, and legged it. Long story short, school decided my family _not_ a good fit, and politely and prayerfully invited us to fuck off, _sorry_ , ‘get stuffed.’”  
  
“The fucking _bastards!_ ” Kathy breathed, cutting off Patrick's fear his language had offended her. “What happened to her? Kicked out too? Or police?”  
  
“Nearly, but not quite, kicked out. Her older sisters had all been spotless characters – never caught at anything, for sure. Ditched me, though that _wasn't_ such a bad thing, what _was_ I thinking? Then six months later she runs away! Ended up in a stables in Ireland, actually. Haven’t seen her, since.”  
  
“But how come she weren't done for breaking in to the office?”  
“Huh? No breaking. Oh, I see! _Boarding_ school. Her, not me; I'd been at this _way_ -too-cosy, first-names-with-teachers day establishment, since I'd been ill a couple years earlier. So just huge cheek of her, I suppose. She _claimed_ she didn't know about phone bills, thought costs of calls were included in the school's deal...”  
“Yeah, _right_. She thick, or just don't use the brain she's got?”  
Patrick tried not to snigger. “Sorry, seems so rude, but that's so exactly it: she don't use the brain she's got!” He’d concluded long ago that Ginty might have the real looks of the family, but any of the others made up for it with personality. It was a shame he’d burnt bridges so badly, when for example Nicola and Lawrie were growing up, but then going near a pair of twins had to be a terrible idea, picking one over the other would never end well...  
There was a pause, and Kathy asked for a pack of bourbons, silently passing one to Patrick, putting the remaining two one on top of the other and chomping through both at once.  
“So, you're proper posh, then.”  
Patrick groaned. Rumbled before even setting foot in the new school!  
“Is it that obvious?”  
She considered. “Well you're posh, yeah, but only _right_ posh ‘cos of boarding school. Wouldn't mention that, but otherwise you'll be OK. Not too gobby, unlike _some_... Obviously you're posher than me, but that ain't sayin' much! I'll let you off!”  
  
She stood up and pulled down her cardigan sleeves.“See ya in English, then, Patrick.” She punched him on the arm, saluted in the direction of the kitchen.“Bye Eyan, Sem!”  
  
Left alone, Patrick idly stirred his tea with the bourbon cream, and managed to retrieve it just before it collapsed in his fingers – _point_ to him in the dunking games.  
“How you like your butty, huh? I see you again, you be my regular customer, yes?“  
Patrick nodded. The bacon and egg had indeed been fried to perfection.”  
“Good. Now, that Kathy is a nice girl. You look after her at school, yes? And nothing that would make her mother sad, no?”The hard stare from the burly man made it quite clear what activities might make Kathy’s mother sad.  
“Er... Sure.”  
“Good. I see you after school, soon. Enjoy your book, it is good to see young people studying. My nephew Sem, he did not do the studying, now look at him!”  
Patrick grimaced towards the kitchen, but the silent Sem didn't notice. Eyan returned to his counter to play genial host as elderly men trooped in for lunch, and Patrick nursed his tea through the first eight chapters of Dracula.  
  
His encounter with Kathy had made him less nervous at the time, but come first day, his stomach was a net of furious butterflies. His mother reminded him, again, of which buses he could take, but he preferred to walk. No chance of being trapped on a bus with a gang of youth, whether going to his new school or elsewhere.  
  
He found the correct gate. “Who're you?” a shrimpy bespectacled woman asked. “Merrick? Ah, good,” she muttered, attacking her clipboard with a biro. “Join the other newbies in the Hall just there, it's marked.”  
  
He was relieved to see a couple hundred fellow students – all new together, it couldn't be so bad. He followed instructions in a daze – this tutor group, that French set, this History class... Finally they were herded to classrooms for 'tutor time'. The building, all glass and stainless steel, square white tables showing brown woodchip where pieces had been chipped off, seemed endless. “You'll be sitting in alphabetical order for now. Please slot in, quickly,” ordered a clipped military voice with a small moustache.  
And Patrick, finally feeling the terror of the sea of strangers, palms sweating, was hugely relieved to find Kathy at the table behind his, giving him a thumbs-up. He half-smiled back, as much as he could force his face to do, and slid into his seat.  



	2. Patrick's Term - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick settles in at St Luke's, makes some friends, and gets detention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written over three-quarters of the story and know what is left, apart from lots of editing - I've never done anything this long before, so if any potential beta readers, especially anyone who knows French or can remember all the falconry bits of the books, would like to get in touch, please do!

Chapter 2  
Tutor period continued with more paper, filling in his own timetable from the master on a screen. _Overhead projector_ , the teacher called it lovingly. He didn't think much of the teacher, casual T-shirt and cords clashing with the anal-retentive toothbrush on his upper lip, too fake-matey with the kids he clearly already liked, sniping at those he didn't. He guessed that Mr Ferguson was one of the anti-Irish types Kathy had mentioned, given the names being spat out. A bell rang, and he was swept along to English.

The atmosphere here was very different; a small room, two walls full of melamine shelves on brackets, with hairy carpet tiles, not lino. No direct sunlight despite the large window; possibly an ex-store room? Plastic bucket chairs with small tables attached, in an attempt at a circle. A short dark woman looked up as they came in. “Nine, ten, eleven. Excellent. All for English A? Who's got copies of Dracula with them? Who's not? Here you go, you two share this one for now. Now, we can tell from the opening lines, Mina Harker is...”

Patrick felt rather like a house bring knocked flat by a storm wind. After twenty minutes of near-monologue, the teacher asked for questions.  
“What's your name, miss?”  
Laughter all round. The teacher was unfazed. “Ms Masefield. M-a-s-e, field. And yes it's Ms, not Miss nor Mrs. Anything else?”  
Another girl asked, “Ain't you going to ask what everybody's name is? I mean, a few of us know you but all that lot,” she waved helpfully in Patrick's general direction, “are new...”  
Ms Masefield put on an expression of exaggerated surprise. “I'm sure I'll figure names out well before I need to complete your A-level entry forms. Perhaps you might _speak_ to each other, _outside_ my lesson? I'd highly recommend it... Now, if no-one has any sensible questions, I'll pose some to you. Why do you think...”

She swept out as the bell rang, leaving Kathy and the other four old students laughing at the open-mouthed newbies.  
“She's an experience, yeah. Don't worry, she probably knows exactly who you all are already.”  
Kathy agreed. “Yup. Knows everything and everyone! _Fearsome_ woman. Where do you guys need to be after break? This is Patrick from Dorset, I know. Who're you?” Introductions were made, Patrick hugely relieved to have had his done for him so he didn’t need to try to force words out of his throat. A thin, ginger lad in a Fair Isle jumper, called Andrew, had French next with Patrick, and he'd see two girls – Erin, pale and quiet, and Sandra, stocky and gobby, in his History group later. Sandra and Erin, like Kathy and a boy, Kieran, had been through the school. Andrew and the other five girls were new, but had lived nearby in London for years, defecting to Luke's for A-levels.

They wandered over to the Sixth Form Centre, where most of their lessons would be. “Masey must've pissed off the powers that be, again,” muttered Sandra. A large common room was packed, thanks to a tea urn at one end and a battered tea-stained pool table at the other.  
“After today, you won't get so many people in here at once,” Kathy explained. Patrick sought refuge in his mug of tea, the ritual of finding milk, sugar, a teaspoon, somewhere to leave the teabag, all occupying him well enough that he could simply let the conversations and shrieks wash over him. Kathy and Sandra ran away, and he followed the crowd oozing back into the school. Patrick and Andrew, at the back of the pack, studied the direction signs on a staircase, until hearing a scream from a girl racing past, “I'll be late for French!” They nodded to each other and followed, and noted the correct room number in relief.

“Bonjour!” This teacher was a stout older man in round wire spectacles. “Vous apprennez le A-level français, n'est-ce pas?”  
“Oui, c'est ça.” Patrick answered comfortably, gaining an approving look. This class had about twenty students, a third black, equal numbers of boys and girls. In clear, slow French in a rural accent – Claudie would have taken the mickey no end – Monsieur Mouchot suggested they would have forgotten much French over the holidays and now it was time to become fluent in the language. “Next week we will begin the literature, but this week we will have conversations.” Patrick relaxed – his French was far from fluent for reading or writing, but he could chat easily enough, and oddly, through a French persona, speaking to new people was less embarrassing.

Then he accompanied Andrew to a sandwich shop, and ate his packed lunch with him in a park. Neither said much, though Patrick grasped that Andrew's previous school had been a few miles away and deemed the ‘nice’ one, but had actually been fairly unpleasant and Andrew wasn’t going to talk about it, which Patrick could quite understand. Just middle-class and respectable, he gathered. Then History, where Erin and Sandra waved at him. Back to an all-white class, mostly boys in this one. They dived straight into some photocopied documents about Henry VII.

It was a relief to be able to head home after that, slightly before the main school released the hordes of chattering youth. So many new people, making first impressions, and the noise. But, compared to any boarding school, it was OK, bearable. He got the impression that he could simply turn up, do lessons, and most of the classmates wouldn't care what he did beyond that. Nor would the teachers. _That_ was refreshing. Freeing. He took Bucket up to the Heath and let her off the lead, feeling that his ears were, metaphorically, similarly blowing backwards in the breeze.

As the weeks passed, Patrick began to feel reasonably settled in the clique that hung out in Eyan's cafe, which centred around Kathy. She’d ushered him along with her the first couple times, by which time he felt able to speak. There was no pressure to attend, but if he hadn't been along for a few days, people would ask him if he was coming with. And Sem's bacon sandwiches were to die for, though the dish of the day was always good, too. A-level study was much more interesting than O-level swotting; though Mr Stubbs who took Chaucer was pretty uninspiring, the text itself raised the lessons to adequate.

Sixth formers were exempt from the daily assemblies, though expected to attend church assembly on Fridays and holy days. In practice, they all went the first few times and then by third week took it in turns to attend and pass on notices.

He and Andrew practised French over coffee in the café. Andrew had the confidence with words to produce sentences fluently if ungrammatically, but too often translated English literally in an accent that reminded Patrick of the policeman in _‘Allo ‘Allo_ , with his " _Good moaning_!" He'd helped Patrick through the knots of literary translation, however.

On a roll, Andrew called out to Sem, "Monsieur? Encore deux café, s'il vous plait."  
Startled, Sem looked up. "Mais oui. Café. Les tasses?" He came to collect their empty mugs, and Patrick realised this was the first time he'd heard Sem speak.  
"Vous parlez le français?" Patrick asked, idiotically.

"Oui.” Sem paused, but clearly could find no reason not to go on. “Je suis du Maroc...je parle le berber...c’est comme l’arabesque – chez moi, mais, dans l’école, l’administration, c’est le français, aussi. Mais j'ai apprendu un peu d'anglais, seulement. "

 _Moroccan_. "But how come Eyan speaks English and you don't?"

Sem explained, constantly darting his gaze around the cafe in case other customers wanted him. Eyan was his uncle, had lived here for 20-odd years. Sem and his family lived in a small village with little work. They'd hoped that Sem, the second son, would stay in education and go to the university, but he'd failed to get the grades; Sem omitted any explanation as to why. In disgust, his family had shipped him off to Eyan, who’d needed a kitchen minion but couldn't afford to pay much. Though as Sem's fry-up talents developed and custom grew, Eyan had paid him a fairer wage and a share of profits. It was hard work. But, maybe, he could work in a restaurant one day? Perhaps his own? He sighed at such fancy, tucked the ever-present tea-towel back into his belt, and went to re-fill their mugs.

Patrick wondered how much of Sem's plan was feasible. _Did_ restaurants still train people up or would catering college be better? He thought he'd ask Claudie, next time she wrote. They exchanged inane notes every month or so, Claudie feeling it her role still to educate Patrick in French culture and vocabulary, Patrick still a mixture of grateful and revolted that she'd taken him at his word and practiced more kissing with him, and more, in her constant amused style, regardless of his opinion on the matter. "Ah, tu es bête! Tu le mets comme ça..." But _stopping_ writing would lead to concerned questions from their parents, so he had no choice.

“What do you think of Luke's, Andrew? Have to admit I'm finding it boringly respectable – I'd been led to believe tales of violence and drug dealing in the bogs...”  
Andrew arched a thin eyebrow. “It's a _school_. Controls its inmates, mostly, for which I'm grateful... Don't know about drugs – you could score a bit of weed at my old school, some knock-off fags, all like the local pub, really. Probably the same here, if you knew the right people. Thought it was _your_ type of place people went to for drugs?” Patrick hadn’t tried to deny his private schooling, and it was an open secret. “Coke and acid and that. Let's face it, what's the point of selling stuff, if no-one around can afford it? Know your market, as they say in Economics...”

“I suppose so. No, I'm _not_ looking to score! Enough blokes in the tutor place messing up with drugs; I'm not going near.” He didn't mention, _I'm enough of a let-down to my pa as is_. Nights out with a number of drinks were perfectly respectable. Everyone drank under age, it didn't count. Except Samir, who somehow managed to become as raucous as the rest of them when they'd gone out on Friday night, which, thinking about it, was slightly unnerving. What embarrassments would the sober chap remember? He recalled a colleague of his father assuring him, “I'm not racist, of course, but how can you trust someone who never lets their guard down with alcohol?” Though Samir seemed eminently trustworthy – he’d come across as a pillar of respectable society when he used his cut-glass accent, if he weren’t so brown...

“Yeah. Knowing the prats who _did_ deal weed at my old place, and what Kathy and the others say about Gary and his mates who used to be here, I think I’ll stick to alcohol. You know what's in it. Well, you don't, because they don't have to tell you the ingredients, but you know it's safe. I wouldn't trust someone's dodgy mate who failed Home Ec...” Andrew paused, amused. “Can you tell me something I've always wanted to know, though? Boys boarding schools, you went to one, right?”  
Patrick nodded. No point in denial.  
“Yeah. So, according to myth, hot-beds of sexual repression and experimentation, and games of Mystic Biscuit... True or false?”

“True, all, all true,” Patrick answered easily without bothering to parse the question. “Wait, mystic what? Oh, biscuit...”  
Andrew waited, then when no further answer was forthcoming, made various charades and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Urban myth, yeah?”  
“What, Soggy Biscuit? No, seen it with mine own eyes… what else can you do with Rich Teas? Though Mystic sounds much better than Soggy... No, _didn't_ feel the need to join in... You're remarkably interested in this, if I may say."  
Andrew blushed beetroot, clashing with his orange hair. "Just wondering. My parents were thinking about sending me to one, at one point – third year - and the rumours were... quite terrifying."  
"Quite... The stories involving death are _generally_ exaggerated, I'll grant you, but otherwise... small insular communities of teenage boys... They go a bit mad." Rather like a hormonal St Mary Mead, he'd always felt. They'd done _Unman, Wittering and Zigo_ in second year, and various classmates appeared to have taken it as an instruction manual.  
" _Mmm_. Lucky escape, then, you reckon?"  
"Very."

Week four, Monday. He entered the classroom for tutor group late; the bus had failed to turn up. He slunk to a table, not a problem as Andrew or Erin could fill him in later. Not Sandra; Sandra always forgot details. Nor Kathy, ideally; she’d tell him eventually after going all round the M25... An argument was ongoing.  
"No, I expect _all_ students to support the school's chosen charity." Fergus’s moustache bristled more than usual.  
"But sir! What's the point of Mission, without actual charity to go with it? If people are starving, then they need food, not just religion..."  
Patrick recognised the discomfort signs of one having to defend the indefensible. Fergus looked like his father had, when Patrick had asked why they had had to go to war over the Falklands, and the answer had been, not in so many words, _because the Party bigwigs say so_.

"And charity's supposed to begin at home, so why not support Luke's food scheme?"  
"Yeah!" Background chorus.  
"Giving money to Mission, just converting people, not feeding them, it’s just like killing people when you don't have to!" Ouch, bit strong there, but he supposed, if you _weren't_ Catholic... Which the East Africans probably weren’t.  
"The Mission does provide healthcare and some support to the congregations it supports..." Fergus attempted a comeback.  
"And _only_ to them. That's blackmail, that is. What happened to freedom of religion?" That was Kathy.  
"You might have noticed, Miss Flanagan, that this is a Catholic school, and within it, there is no freedom of religion." _Weak_.  
"Still subject to the laws of this country, though. And we're all over sixteen, so our parents' choice of religion doesn't apply any more. And there's people what need food, right here, in this school, this manor, it's even Luke's church giving it out!"  
Various nods and mutters supported Kathy's rant, but not so loud as to be pinned onto any individual who might pop their head out of a rabbit-hole. She caught Patrick's eye, and both of them turned to Fergus. He clearly expected Patrick to say something.

If his being at odds with his previous school had meant anything, this was probably it. Patrick might have grown up a bit and eased off his disgust with the revised Church, but he couldn't, in conscience, support modern Mission. Which made supporting the local community centre's practical outreach the clear moral decision for the class's fundraising. He swallowed and spoke. "Well, Jesus said to feed the poor and needy, didn't he? Not, pay disciples to proselytise?" Patrick tried to sound as casual and off-hand as he could.

Some intakes of breath behind him told Patrick this wasn't going to go down well.

"Well, _Mr Merrick_ , perhaps your father could use his influence and enact some policies to _support_ said needy?"

It had finally happened – someone using his father against him, rather than the other way round, him against his father. He still felt cold in his stomach when he thought of what he'd overheard, how other MPs – on his own side, even, had made digs about ‘dishonesty’ and ‘poor judgement’. At least no-one had ever referred to a certain deathly incident.

"He couldn't, you know. He's only on the Farming Committee. And I'm afraid you're not his constituent. Perhaps your own MP would welcome your views." Patrick spoke coolly, calmly, the lines he'd rehearsed in his head. Meanwhile, ice solidified in his guts.

Sandra straightened up, startled. "Your dad's a bloody MP?", she accused.  
Time for the other practised one-liner. "Don't blame me. I didn't vote for him." It sounded horribly disloyal, but was, of course, factually accurate.

"That will do, _Merrick_." Ferguson spat the name out as he did others: Flanagan. O'Malley. Kelly. Mulroney. And Selassi and Khan, come to think of it, but Ade and Samir were so quiet in Fergus's territory, their names rarely needed mentioning.

"He's right, you know. About feeding people. It's the Christian – _moral_ ," Kathy added, thinking of Samir, "thing to do."

"That's _quite_ enough, Miss Flanagan! I think you and Mr Merrick can join detention after school today and write 400 words on the ethos of the school. I don't want to hear any more about other plans for the Fair proceeds: we _will_ be supporting the School charity. The Luke’s Mission." The electric bell clanged."Off to class, all of you."

The mutters buzzed like mosquitoes around them. Patrick grasped that here, detention was a tool used to get first-years to remember their kit and for second-years to cease being 'wee gobshites'. Various people said sixth-formers couldn't be made to go anyway, who did Fergus think he was? _Wee Hitler with his stupid moustache..._

Patrick touched Kathy's arm once they'd escaped the crowd and were nearing M Mouchot's room for his French lit lesson. "Look, is it OK if we go? To the detention?"  
"You _want_ to?"

"Natch not. Just, if I don't, they'll clamp down on me even more, can't be seen to have favourites, and then it gets back to my dad and might lead to more trouble for him. And if I go and you don't, then _you're_ landed in it."

"Your dad's actually an MP?"  
"Back-bencher, yeah. _Very_ back. Deals with local land disputes and farming regs back home, and that's about it. Not like, say, Michael Portillo or Fatty Lawson; they don't even know his name."

"Uh-huh. Which Party? No, don't bother telling me, old-school Tory, right?"  
He sighed. "Very. It's hardly as if anyone else stands, that neck of the woods. Feudal, almost. Oh, you don't do history... Touching forelock to the Lord of the Manor, that kind of thing. They think it works..."  
"Strewth. Sounds like it's stuck in the last century? Really? So... does that mean all the _ooh-arr_ West Country jokes are true, then?"

He grimaced, knowing Mr Tranter and the extended Potts family _were_ indeed too like the stereotype of straw-chewing yokels, bowing to the Master of the Hunt, practically scraping to his parents or the Marlows…

"Occasionally, I suppose. Like, well, the IRA _are_ Irish..."  
"Point. Yeah, OK, detention, but if Mum or Gran finds out, I'm telling her it's all _your_ fault." She ran ahead as he entered the classroom.

Almost the only member of his tutor group to be in his French class was Andrew, who, laconic as ever, remarked, "So that's what _you've_ been hiding. Was wondering." He switched to French as M Mouchot fixed him with a glare. "Therefore the move from Dorset to London, though why _here_?"

Patrick stumbled through the explanation of the Marlows inheriting the farm next door unexpectedly, and his parents initially renting their old house, after his father was persuaded to stand in a by-election, then buying it after being swept in at the last General.

Andrew waited until Mushie was the other side of the room before mentioning, in English, "So you're dead posh, then?"

Patrick winced – until then, he'd felt he and Andrew and Erin came from fairly similar amounts of money, buying rounds and going out with similar frequency, though obviously Meriot Chase in the background made a difference. “Landed gentry, I suppose. No titles, or anything aristocratic...”

"Not your fault, mate. Posh doesn't always mean money, does it?"  
And Patrick, recalling the Marlows' saga of trying to pay for all relevant school fees, which Rowan had tried and failed to make a joke of, or his own parents fretting over the endless leaking roofs, agreed.

At three-thirty, Patrick tried to look nonchalant in the corridor by the smaller library which was used for detention, and was very glad when Kathy came running up the stairs to join him. Even more so, as Ms Masefield came in.

"I would say 'what a pleasant surprise to see you two', but I won't. _What_ have you two been doing to pi- _annoy_ Mr Ferguson, and have you done this essay yet?" She was straight to the point. The woman was like a gimlet.

Patrick gesticulated helplessly, but Kathy burst out: "We was, were, having a civilised discussion about fundraising from the school fair. We all, all of our tutor group, thought it would be better to support local communities who need _practical_ stuff like food, not just evangelising overseas – Fergus isn't even religious but he just kept trotting out about having to support the school, makes no sense, and then he said Patrick's dad should sort out this country, totally out of order, just ‘cos his dad's an MP, and Patrick was _totally_ reasonable, right, just said his dad was a, a...”  
“Back-bencher.”  
“Yeah, and only did farming and that, and could only deal with concerns of his own constituents anyway. And then I just mentioned _he_ was right and _next_ thing we know, we’ve both got detention, with an essay on the ethos of the school, I mean, _what? Seriously?_ ”

Patrick was pretty sure Masey was trying to hide a laugh, but of course, she'd need to support the party line – _school line_ – too.

The teacher lifted her chin out of her hand. “ _Hmm._ Well, for the essay, I think you'll find the school prospectus on those shelves,” she twitched her head towards the bookcase, “and copying the relevant sections will probably take about 20 minutes. Then, I think, we'll go say hello to Father Derek. Oi! Don't just stand there gawping like ones in Tyndall's, get on with it! I've got marking to do.”

True to her word, she sat down to read a sheaf of file paper. All blue ink; lower school expostulations.  
Kathy shrugged at Patrick, tossed him a prospectus, and they sat down to copy text from page five onwards. A page-and-a-half of her writing and two of his later, they handed their output to Ms Masefield, who signed at the bottom without reading any of the content.

"If Mr Ferguson has any concerns about the quality of these essays, please refer him to me.” Her stiff, steely expression, wrinkling the bright lipstick, suggested she rather hoped this might happen. “Now, we have forty minutes left, so follow me."

They followed her, confused sheep, out of the school and into the church hall next door. A group of toddlers was corralled in a room at the front as harassed mothers tried to interest them in brightly-coloured noise-makers – Patrick couldn't, even in his head, dignify them with the term 'instruments.' The main hall was empty of people, with a line of empty prams and pushchairs by one wall. At the back, a corridor led to an office, plus a kitchen and a storage area for many folding tables and chairs, and beyond that, doors to the church itself.

“Vestry's back there. Derek should be in.” Ms Masefield knocked on the office door. “All right, Derek? Two of my A-level students, here, Kathy, Patrick. Their class is objecting to the party line that all school fundraising goes to Mission, and were thinking donating to your causes supporting the locals made more sense. I'm sympathetic to their argument obviously, and there's a number of students in the Sixth Form who aren't even nominally Catholic, so was wondering what you thought and whether your influence on Mr Sullivan might have any weight.

“In the meantime, I thought they might want to put their money where their mouth is, as it were, and volunteer with you as Community Service, which they're supposed to start soon. Maybe the class could get a rota going?”

Father Derek, grey sleek hair but probably still in his thirties, sharp black cassock down to his ankles looking plausibly like gear in Camden Market, nodded. “How's your cooking skills? Here's our timetable...”

A tour of the kitchen, and they found they'd agreed to help produce dinner for a ‘community group’ that evening – anyone who wants to come is welcome. Given a sign-up sheet to take back to class, they realised the brilliance of the politics of it – volunteering showed conviction, in a way that pure argument didn't. By the end of the week, the whole class were on board, even if the last were tempted only by promises of tea and biscuits. Later, Patrick realised their reticence was partly from having been occasional beneficiaries of the meals at Luke’s, and tried to hide when they were about, in case they wanted dinner without being seen. Samir had been unsure about working in a Catholic church, but after coming once, had decided that feeding the needy of any creed or none was his own religious duty; it was a hall rather than a church, after all, and he had been the one to suggest another, more chilled, homework club to complement the ones in school. He and Kathy explained Maths to an endless stream of spotty youth; Patrick tried to avoid the young but ended up practising French with a few. _Bearable_ , he felt, but preferred to chop veg and rhythmically dole out platefuls of nosh from the kitchen, where it was more peaceful and, crucially, conversation wasn’t required.

With one daytime and two after-school shifts at the hall – he couldn't cite a paying job as an excuse for less – and generally spending the other three afternoons in Eyan's cafe, either doing homework or listening to the others chatting, he was home only for an hour or two before dinner, which he found he liked – enough time for his remaining homework, usually, and meant he wasn’t getting under his mother’s tetchy feet. They both knew, whilst never once mentioning it, that they got on better with each other in small doses.

As he settled into the new routine, Patrick decided he was mostly content with his new London life, going hiking across the wilder end of the Heath when he craved green space, or up to Barnet Woods on a weekend, but a night back at Mariot Chase, to assist when his father took his monthly surgery, reminded him of what he missed – not so much the huge open spaces, but the birds and the wildlife.

Horses he could take or leave; they fulfilled a purpose as transport in rural Dorset which London Transport met far better in London, though he was fond of the elderly Mr Buster as a pet, but he realised he longed for a weight on his fist. He realised that wanting heavy, sweaty leather buckled round his hand could be taken quite the wrong way, and chuckled, but he felt the loss of Regina, Jael and even the daft Sprog, as an ache in his chest whenever he looked up at the open sky.

 

 

 

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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick hangs out at Kathy's house and settles into work at the community centre and other volunteering.

They went to Kathy's one Friday night, walking in the opposite direction from Luke’s than the way Patrick knew; west-north-west towards Willesden Green, rather than east-north-east to South Hampstead, and crossed the ominously-named Shoot-Up Hill. The estate was of four-storey brick council blocks; 1960s, solid as rock. Patrick tried to hide his nerves as he followed the others through grotty concrete-lined rectangular arches linking courtyards of identical squat brutalist buildings, the yards containing scrubby grass lawns surrounded by peeling black-painted railings. A few front doors had planters outside, with flowers in various stages of death. The third courtyard was even uglier, as it doubled as a car park. _A back-up exit_ , he thought in some embarrassed relief. It probably wouldn’t look nearly so bad in sunshine… 

He followed Kathy and Erin through a heavy spring-loaded door. A battered steel panel had been screwed to the lower half, presumably to save it from being kicked in. Sandra and Andrew followed him into the dim hallway, walls of breeze blocks painted crudely in two shades of institutional blue, a bare concrete staircase leading up. _Like a p_ _rison_ , Patrick felt, and shivered. But then the third door along was a front door like those he was familiar with, of respectable panelled wood, proudly bearing brass knocker and neat brass number. A pot either side contained a lurid red geranium. Kathy unlocked the door and they entered a living room that was total contrast to the bleak communal area: warm, stylishly decorated, comfortable. It could have belonged to any of his previous schoolfriends’ parents - as indeed could the other rooms.  
  
He blinked, startled and relieved.   
“ _What_?” Sandra snapped at him.  
“ _Just._ Just thinking, bit of a contrast to the hallway outside...” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, making clear it wasn't the vestibule inside the flat he was speaking of.  
Sandra was making a 'well, derr' face, then a light bulb went on. “Never been to a council estate before?” The tone was mildly hostile in its curiosity.  
“Sure.” It was a lie. “But not in London.” Close enough to the truth, _better_. The estates he avoided on the outskirts of Colebridge were rows of houses, new semis mostly. “All sprawly new houses... Thinking about it, not sure I've been in a _flat_ before...” It was an exaggeration, but defused the tension.  
  
“Aw, bless you, farm boy.” It was a joke, mostly. Sandra never hid her resentment of the half of the class from what she called the right side of the tracks, or in this case, the A5, Kilburn High Road. Though _g_ _enerally_ she shut up about it as long as he, Andrew and Erin fuelled her tea habit, restoring her to cheerful irreverence.  
“Fair do's. So what do you get up to in the Big Smoke? Outside school, I mean.”  
Kathy rolled her eyes. “Not much. Homework, telly, go down the library, sometimes the cinema – the one in Golders Green is always cheap and near-empty on a Friday night.”  
“How come?”  
“Where all the Jews live, innit. Well not all, but loads of Orthodox Jews and other Jews round there, so Friday night their Sabbath starts and they walk round each others houses and have dinner – no cinema, not using cars or buses...”  
“Is that where you live, Sandra?” Andrew asked.  
“Used to, before Mum moved in with Doug, near Brondesbury Park. About ten minutes walk that way,” she explained, as Patrick looked confused. “My aunt’s still round there. It's all right, Golders. Quiet. Cheap. My mum says, say what you like about Jews, they make good clean neighbours.”  
Patrick, whose only contacts with Judaism had been a small whiny boy at his prep, and the total contrast of Miranda West, of whom he grasped that 'cheap' wouldn't have been anywhere near her family's considerations in deciding where in London to live, shrugged. “That's what my neighbour Rowan says about stables of horses.”  
  
“You have horses?” The subtext from Erin was clear: not so much a girl's horsey fantasy as trying to place Patrick in her mind. Was he rich as well as rural posh? He wasn't sure of the answer to that himself.  
“A couple on our farm, yes. The Marlows next door – I _say_ next door, it's about half a mile from their house to ours, but the two are about three miles from anyone else – they stable half a dozen for people round about. We have sheep, lots, some cows, then we _had_ my hawks...”  
Erin looked up. “ _Had_? What happened?”  
“One flew off. A peregrine falcon. The other two died, one got shot by some tosser thinking she was a rabbit...”  
“Ouch." Erin winced. "Rabbits are a menace for any farmer, aren't they? My granddad was a market gardener, hated the buggers. Always in his lettuces or getting tangled in his netting.”   
  
He'd taken her for a sentimental animal lover, clearly not quite the case. Though he wasn't _yet_ prepared to confess to fox hunting..,  
“Not so bad for us, we don't do much arable. But at Trennels – the place next door – Rowan says its a constant battle to keep them off her fields. And the only _good_ thing is they distract the foxes from the chickens.”  
  
"Speaking of chicken, " Kathy said cheerfully, "Gran left a stew for us all. D'you like spicy food, Patrick, Andrew? She's great, if you do. Best have some now before Dom or the kids get in."  
Munching happily through his plateful of chicken, spicy beans and rice, washed down with the beer and cider he and Andrew had contributed, Patrick agreed the absent Granny Flanagan was indeed wonderful.  
She sounded like a right character, too, reminiscent of his own battle-axe aunts who swooped in occasionally to tell off his father, and who would still try to grab his cheek if he didn't actively avoid.  
  
"So where were you at before, Andrew?"  
Andrew took time to chew his mouthful before answering. "Place in Edgware. It was shit. Left. You've been at Luke's all along, haven't you, Sandra?"  
The reversal of subject practically screeched its handbrake turn, but no-one pushed it.   
  
"Yeah. Moved down the road when I was ten, it's the nearest high school. It was a dive then. Now they've sorted out behaviour a bit and encouraged the idiots out, suddenly its all desirable for the likes of you." Her thumb circled to indicate Andrew and Patrick.   
"You didn't miss much. Fourth year, with Options, it starts to get civilised." Kathy said.  
"If you stay out of Hairdressing and Tech and that," Erin clarified. "Remember how the lads in Tech destroyed the sheds with that motor?"  
"And Mr Spit. Not that anyone was sorry to see the back of him." Kathy added. "I think he was Mr Smith but he spit all the time so he was always called Spit... Had a horrible little dog, too."  
"Until it disappeared. The gypsy kids, they said."  
"Or the Travellers. It was them saying it was the gypsies." Erin said.  
"Fair point. Prob why the school lost its bad reputation, when the pikey kids got that Unit out in Stanmore, and the gypsy families all got settled and stopped coming. So they all stopped fighting each other and everyone else."   
  
"It wasn't _just_ them, Sanj. Daz and Gary and that lot started it just as much as any of them."  
"Aw, you're always so sweet, Kaff! But no. You've got Gary and his knuckle-headed morons, sure, but then you had the Mulany brothers, and you had the horse-trading lot, and those two families feuding over the scrapyard, and then at _least_ two groups of the gypsy kids, and _all_ of them at each other soon as look that way."  
  
"Delicia didn't. Sorry, guys, she was at primary with me and Erin.” Kathy explained.  
  
"No, she was sweet, but haven't seen her since first year, her family got a static down in Vauxhall. And _she's_ a girl. Come on, how much fighting do girls do? It's not being racist; travellers destroy places and no-one wants them. And Luke's got much better when they stopped turning up to deck anyone who tried to learn. I bet you Sully got that Unit elsewhere on purpose, he was always on their case. No flies on Sully… Actually, you know what I heard? He wanted to stop the school being all Catholic so he could sweep up some of the Jewish kids from Golders and boost the exam results, but the Governors weren’t having it."  
  
Patrick wasn't comfortable with Sandra's rant, though he couldn’t, then, articulate why. On the other hand, travellers _were_ the ones who destroyed fields and left rubbish everywhere, not to mention the gangs of kids who swooped down on the mini-supermarket to shoplift as much as possible before the constabulary showed up. The gypsies of lore, doing odd jobs and keeping themselves to themselves, appeared to have vanished – to the statics on sites, he guessed – leaving only the criminal element. He was rather glad to have avoided them at Luke’s. Though given the Thuggery back home, and the _interesting_ range of experience of his fellows at the crammer – not to mention the Oeschli affair – it wasn't as if he'd missed out on encountering law-breaking... Nor on mindless violence, which didn’t bring up memories of murder in the Thuggery, but rather of back when he'd been boarding, until the end of third year. His prep had been OK, but the senior school... Maybe, simply, most boys _were_ violent at that age?  
  
“D’you miss the hawks?” Erin asked.  
Patrick shrugged, not trusting his voice to answer. _More than anything_.  
“There’s a bird rescue place out on the Heath,” Andrew commented.  
“Really? Whereabouts?”  
“Golders Park end, past the West Heath. North of the deer enclosure. They want to expand it into a small zoo, apparently. Sounds like the sort of set-up always begging for volunteers...”  
“More volunteering? Can tell _you_ don’t need a part-time job to pay the bills!”  
“My dad used to say, leave the jobs to those as need them, when he was trying to get me to work harder for O-levels,” Erin retorted quietly to Sandra.  
“How’s Barrett’s, anyhow?” Kathy changed the subject, ever the peacemaker.

“OK. Much more peaceful than Tesco’s, and the pay’s a bit better. And they don’t open silly hours, so there’s not that pressure to work them. Dad got me a couple shifts in a local pub so now I do all Saturday nights, which is madness but really helps. Then I’ve still got Sundays and three weeknights left for school work, so it’s all good, really.”

There was a ring at the door, and Patrick steeled himself to meet more Flanagans, but it was only Samir, oddly grown-up-looking in ironed jeans and shirt, hair gelled. The others had come over straight from school, still in uniform, minus their scrawny ties.    
“Wossat?”   
“Just talking about jobs,” Kathy explained, and _was_ that more attention than she’d given to anyone else all evening?

“Don’t talk to me about jobs, man,” Samir groaned. “Dad wanted me in the shop all tomorrow, but I convinced him I needed to get some exercise tonight, so he thinks I’m on a long bike ride.. I keep telling him, let me work evenings so I can do school work at the same time, when it’s quiet! I’m gonna have to quit the community centre group, I tell you.”

“Or use the homework club for its intended purpose?” That was Andrew, dry as ever.   
“But… Oh, I see! Might have a point, there, mate.”   
“Also,” Kathy interjected, “you do your Maths so quick, it doesn’t take that long. _And_ Physics. I’ve seen you.”   
“Yeah, but man, Chemistry! You know Mr German, right? Wants S-levels from everyone, and is basically a man obsessed… Between him and Butchie, if it’s not inorganic it’s organic, mechanisms and formulae coming out my ears!”   
“Ah, that’s your problem, best poke them back in again!” They groaned at Kathy’s wisecrack and passed round another can each, though Kathy, Erin and Samir went for tea instead. 

Mrs Flanagan came in with Kathy’s younger brother and sister around nine-thirty. 

“Don’t mind us, and don’t save food for us, it’s not needed. It’s not, we went for a fish supper after their karate class, we’re full. Now, off to bed with you, Michael, and you, that’s you, Orla! Kathy and her friends won’t want you lollygagging about. Aye, I will have a cuppa, thank you Samir, that’s kind. No, I can put the food in the fridge, you don’t need to tonight.”  
Kathy called out, possibly to distract the others from realising that Samir was around here more often than they’d known about, “Dom’ll want some later, I’m sure!”  
“Ah, well, might as well leave it all out, if _he’s_ coming home tonight! He eats like a horse, he does.”  
Patrick refrained from mentioning, as he might have done to Nicola, that horses were in fact very rarefied eaters who _never_ stuffed themselves.  
Mrs Flanagan left to ensure her youngest children were at least in their rooms, and they continued talking until Dom came in.  
  
The next day, Patrick decided to clear his head – that last pint had been a bad move, in hindsight. He went up to the Heath to explore the northern side, soon wishing he had a horse, or at least his bicycle with him, to go up and down the rises and falls. He meandered a bit until he spied a bus stop, which obligingly provided a bus, and, finally gaining his bearings, he alighted by and entered the bird rescue centre.  
A small wooden entrance hut, presumably there to take entry fees if such existed, stood in front of small stables, repurposed for their avian inhabitants. A young woman in khaki walked past, a falcon on her fist, then, startled by his presence, turned back and called to him, “What do you want?”  
He wanted to run, but the birds... He stayed stuck to the spot, silent as a five-year-old in wet pants, and she came towards him.  
“Well? We’re not hiring, and not doing demos until Saturday.” She was brusque but, he felt, not _meaning_ to be unfriendly. Efficient with words, like a telegram.  
“No… Look, I used to keep hawks, then my family moved to London… someone said, you could use a hand...”  
“What sorts of birds did you have?”  
“A peregrine – Regina. Before that a goshawk – she got shot. And a merlin I had to give away. My neighbours used to have more, but then the uncle died and they didn’t get replaced.” He didn’t like to think of his attempts to capture chicks from the cliffs. “I like your kestrel. She’s a beauty.”

The woman’s manner softened; he’d passed a test. “Yes. This is Bungo; she was found on Wimbledon Common as an egg. Could have knocked me down with a feather when she actually hatched! Supposed to be able to see near ultraviolet, they say, but I’m not convinced, she’s a daft sod. So you, you’ve done cleaning sheds, exercising, flying – any training to the lure?”   
He nodded. “Three of them. And then when Regina went wild, got her back again a year later.”   
“Get away. Must have been a different bird.”   
“No, really. Had the ring on and all.”   
“OK. Here’s a broom – can you sweep out these two sheds, mind their majesties, and then we’ll get you a glove and see what you can do for us.” She vanished for half an hour, but then reappeared.

She watched approvingly as he took a merlin onto his glove, let him fly and swoop back to him. He grinned at her; not so frosty, she was probably only ten years older than he was, and he appreciated just being able to share the joys of birds with someone who understood. He realised he’d been missing Nicola less than the birds, and eagerly agreed to come by three times a week, twice before school, once on weekends. The manager of the centre apparently was seen more and more rarely, leaving Jill and a part-time chap running the place with only volunteers. Jill clearly didn’t expect him to follow through, but after the second week he’d become a fixture.

 

Two afternoons a week he was at the church centre. On his third stint, he was left alone to prepare food – pasta and bol sauce – do the veg, add the tomatoes and beans, leave to simmer for as long as possible – but his methodical meditative work was interrupted when he was joined in the kitchen by the other young priest whom he’d seen around. _Father Mike_ , someone had said. Stylish black hair, somehow looked too trendy for a priest.   
“Just saying hello to our new team of volunteers. It’s great, you know – we can deliver so much more to the community.”   
Busily chopping onions, Patrick didn’t know how to answer, so went “mmm” and tried to look willing.   
“You’re Patrick, aren’t you? Good name. I’m Mike.”   
Patrick nodded, realised too late that “pleased to meet you” had been expected. Now it would just be more awkward if he opened his mouth at all.   
“Any problems, do come to me. I work more with the children than Derek does; he and Monsignor Alfonso generally handle our adult visitors.”

“OK.” The man was way too cheerful for a rainy October afternoon, Patrick felt, and was relieved when he moved on. Reminiscent of call-me-Alan and all that false mateyness. He supposed the younger kids might like it; social workers had to appear friendly to get anywhere, he guessed, but he preferred his adults to have a slight barrier. Though of course, at seventeen he _was_ , now, sort of an adult, and eighteen in a few months… He wasn’t sure he wanted to be lumped in the same category as Father Anything, nor Fergus, his father…

His thoughts were disrupted by a first-year coming up to him. “Ain’t food done yet?”   
“No. Give it ten minutes if you’re desperate, but it’ll taste better in half an hour.” Both true, but he meant, _go away_.   
“Tchuh. Service here stinks!” The kid grinned at him to show she didn’t mean it, then ran off. By the time the third brat had asked the same question, he figured he might as well be blunt. “Food’ll never be ready if you keep asking and don’t let me get on!” He tried more robust language when that didn’t seem to work.   
The children didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t sure, but a few seemed to come by a few more times, just for the thrill of being told to bog off.

On the next Saturday, Jill was demonstrating birds of prey to a few agog and a few bored children. She was visibly delighted to see Patrick and tossed him a gauntlet.  
"Hey! Please, could you give me a hand here?" She then hissed behind her hand. "I'm desperate for a wee!"  
  
He thought about running away, but he took a falcon on his fist, got settled with her weight, and continued the spiel he'd heard so many times on the previous weekends. The falcon set back on her perch, he picked up an eagle. She was heavy, much heavier than he was used to. “This here is Stella... She's nearly reached her adult wingspan... She was bred in a captive bird breeding programme and...”  
"Thanks so much. You keep going."  
He did, with the odd extra comment from Jill, who took over when it was time to mix up small children and birds, not a combination of which he approved, but in this case two young humans were granted huge gloves and small tiercels and gazed, transfixed, at the hawks.  
  
“Nicely done.” Jill never spoke much, so he rated this as high praise, or at least appreciation. “I'll mention your name, if you like, if you wants a job here. Should be one coming up, boss said.”  
“Really? A _paying_ job?”  
“Really. The other volunteers are fine for mucking out and some can do exercising, but we need to pay a bit for weekend and holiday people to do shows. Not saying it pays much, it doesn't, but the more commissions you bring in, the better – there's the odd bonus. You interested in the job, then?” Patrick nodded enthusiastically.  
“If it can fit round school, then yeah... Amazing!”   
“I'll put a word in.” It was implied: ‘job's a good 'un’.  
  
Uplifted, Patrick went to one of the kids who appeared to be struggling with the weight of his hawk. “No, I'm _fine_!”, the boy squawked, indignant as the bird he was holding.

 

As he entered the building on Monday morning, Mr Ferguson collared him. “Apparently, you and Miss Flanagan have already arranged your Community Service?”   
“Er... Yes, sir.” The detention with Ms Masefield seemed a very long time ago.  
“I see. You'll probably find it rather a shock to your system, with _your_ background...”  
“Not so far...” He bit off the 'sir' with effort – it wasn't expected here, though the word often popped out from many pupils. Using it twice in a row would seem obsequious cheek, in Fergus’ eyes. In fact, apart from the level of fighting between the younger kids, and the lack of attempts not to swear in front of the priests, the centre seemed remarkably home-like.  
“Hmm. Off you go, then.”  
  
That evening, Patrick's enjoyment of systematically plating up stew and potatoes – two spuds, two carrots, at least two fragments of meat per portion, _bonus_ mark to him if he didn't need an extra spoonful – was interrupted by some of the more annoying younger recipients turning up. 

“Oi, fuck-face, I ain't got no meat here!”

  
Patrick resisted the urge to fling a ladle of stew into the brat's round, piggy-pink face, made uglier by close-cropped hair. He must have been twelve or so, fat under his uniform, no muscle at all. As if he'd been sculpted from potato, which, metaphorically, he probably had been. The kid – Danny, he recalled - pushed another out of the way to try to get back in front of Patrick, and the second – a consistently-cheerful skinny black first year called Michael – punched him back. Michael was one of the regular attenders, Patrick knew. He'd tried helping him with homework once when Samir had given up, and concluded that if Michael could put a fraction of the effort into school-work as he did into long entertaining explanations as to why he _couldn't_ , he would go far. But he didn't and probably wouldn't. Patrick thought he might make an excellent local politician. Game show host, Samir had suggested.  
  
A kick from Danny, and Michael shoved him aside. Kelly, the consistent nagger from Michael’s year, swooped in and stole both plates while the boys were distracted, and settled down to gobble them as fast as she could. This was just as well, as Danny then pushed Michael backwards over the counter, his superior height and weight squashing the boy even before Danny laid his forearm across Michael's neck. From his side of the counter, Patrick could do little – Danny didn't even have hair to pull on. He saw a shadow pass the door. “Father!”  
  
And Father Mike ran in, clocked the situation, and pushed Danny sideways with force a boxer might have been proud of. He pulled the boy to his feet, arm twisted behind his back, kicked his feet apart and frog-marched him into the corridor before anyone could say anything.  
The first to speak was Michael, who had picked himself up and was trying to look as cocky as if nothing had happened. “Hey, where's my dinner?”  
“Here. Don't worry.” _This_ was something Patrick could handle. “Here you go.”  
“Cheers, mate. Aw, go on, gizza bit more. Just a bit. For me?” The kid fluttered his eyelashes comically. Patrick grinned silently and sloshed in another half-ladleful, one potato, no meat. If this were his dinner, he could do with a good helping.  
“Ta. Ain't talked to you before. You keep hiding, scoop, scoop, scoop, don't speak. _Can_ you talk, ‘bout other stuff, like?”  
Patrick laughed. “Yes. I can.”  
“You just don't, then. Makes up for me, my mum says I talk enough for two... Or ten. That's what the teachers say. Say I'm mouthy. Mouthy Michael, they say. Always on my back, man. What's your name?”  
“Patrick.”

“Patrick, Pat, Paddy, can I call you Paddy?”   
“I'd much prefer you didn't.”  
“Tough shit, Paddy's a much better name. Knick-knack, paddy whack, gizza dog a bone... You do the best dins, man. See ya!”  
  
Patrick shook himself out of his daze, and went back to methodically dishing up. He saw Kelly sneaking round to go through the line again and decided not to notice.  
“A'right, Paddy?”  
She'd been talking to Michael. “Was, until some young brats started calling me Paddy...”  
“Aw. Don't they tell you, it's a hard life? Every one of us has their cross to bear, you know. Me more than most.” She said this with a huge grin and Patrick didn’t know how to take it. “See ya tomorrow, yeah?” 

 

He was mesmerised by the routine again by the time Father Mike came past to grab food for himself and Danny, who was sitting sullenly in a corner waiting for him to return. Danny generally _was_ permanently sullen, Patrick thought. He wondered if the kid had any redeeming features. Father Mike would have his work cut out to find them, for sure.

  
After the kids went home, or just went, a trickle of adults came in, but Patrick left by half-past six. He had homework to do, after all. Also, the idea of homeless or skint adults, reliant on what was was, essentially, a soup kitchen, creeped him out. It was a guilty feeling, which his work there – beyond school community service expectations – partially alleviated, but the helplessness and the gut reaction of _wrongness_ was most unpleasant. 

 

He was most unimpressed at his assignment to argue Pangloss’s view in Candide: that everything happened for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Jackmerlin for advice on hawks! Any remaining errors are my own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising find on the Heath.

  


His weekend was a pleasant mixture; of reading on the Heath, and a turn demonstrating owls, at the bird centre. The owls always came across as gormless, dozy creatures, wrenched from their nocturnal lifestyles, but he had to admit they were beautiful. Their brown-and-white mottling stood out from the grey barn, he loved the little fluffy ears, and their ability to turn their heads away, by nearly 180 degrees, never failed to impress him. And if he _had_ to let a bird of prey near an infant, the owls were much better than hawks for his blood pressure. A peaceful two days, away from school and all that din and hectic palaver.

 

During his Monday morning shift, however, Jill had bad news for him. “No go, I'm afraid. Boss came back, I mentioned your name and she was _right_ snotty – not paying _any_ money in your direction. Nor any other volunteer, so nothing personal, I don’t think. Ungrateful cow! Sorry about that. Might be an opening in the summer, though, when we're doing more demos. For certain, if _I_ can sign it off.”

The yellow-streaked sky and its low sun that had been getting in his eyes suddenly seemed more ominous. Vicious, even.

  
Patrick managed a small smile at her, but took her up on the suggestion to call it a day. He stomped off towards the main part of the Heath, which always cheered him up when London or its people began to feel oppressive. A soothing surrounding of green, away from all those buildings, full of people, and _expectations_. An hour before school started; plenty of time to walk round the ponds, perhaps a quick dip, even, he had briefs and towel in his bag…

  
He approached the Men's Bathing Pond – always quieter than the closer Mixed Pond, and lacked the unnerving ogling men – Andrew had contradicted him on this, arguing the Men's Pond had way more leerers, only they were more subtle about it, which was fine by Patrick.  What he didn’t know...  
  
A flurry in a horse-chestnut tree caused him to look up, and a couple conkers landed heavily in front of his shoes, bursting out of their spiky cases. _Narrow escape_. But, that noise? Sounded like wings…

He looked up into the brown-edged floppy leaves, and just missed a prickly conker-case in the face. Two birds, one a crow perhaps, were having an altercation, but it was now ending, as one screeched. A squirrel bounded down, with an expression on its face as if _it_ most certainly hadn't been involved, _no, not me, guv_.  
  
Instinctively, he raised his fist, still clad in the thick leather gauntlet, and whistled softly. A bird of prey – a merlin? No, a female sparrowhawk – emerged from the tree, flapped awkwardly towards him, but then soared away. He could see from the silhouette that the bird was injured, and tried to follow her. She came towards him a few times, but wouldn't land. She circled, but lower than she should have been, and then landed in a tree. As he sidled over to try to entice her down, she flew off again. Her attempt at soaring was hampered, and her flight skewed to the right. Trying to quietly get near her, he managed to reach the grass under where she was circling, her wings clearly finding it hard work to keep her aloft, but she dived into a spindly tree to rest. Only a minute, and then she took off again.

 

This performance was repeated, twice, then a third time. Time was getting on; he couldn’t spend all morning looking hopefully upwards. He started towards the bus route to school, giving up, but then, just as the bus appeared in the distance, she plopped heavily onto his hand. He pulled spare jesses out of a pocket – _always be prepared,_ Akela from his Cub days _would_ be proud _–_ and got a loop round her foot with a bit of fumbling. Now to find a perch for her...  
  
Leaving the bus to go by, he crossed the road to a telephone box. The hawk rested on his glove, as good as gold. He called the centre, hoping Jill would answer. But it was another woman’s voice, harsh and crackling. “Sorry, we're full up. Just let it go. Or look after it yourself, if you're that bothered.”  
  
The bird looked him in the eye. He couldn’t let her down. The wing wasn't badly damaged, but would need imping. He figured out his location; could still reach school for first lesson; much further away from home via any method of transport. He tucked his coat over his left arm and the hawk under it, and awkwardly stepped onto the next bus. This was all very well until the lady next to him squealed, and he had to alight two stops early to prevent a scene. Only then did he realise that going into school with a bird wasn't an option either – _thick as bloody Kes, Merrick,_ he told himself – nor could he tie her to the fence like one would a dog. He decided to purchase a sustaining breakfast while he pondered his options.  
  
The hawk sitting openly on his hand, given that only one customer was in evidence, he strolled into the caff as nonchalantly as he could. Only Sem was behind the counter, who rose to his feet with an exclamation. “Pas d'oiseaux!” Sem made a cross with his forearms and continued in French, “The health and safety will not be as cross as my uncle...”

  
“Please, Sem? Not in the kitchen, but could I just leave her in the back here, or in the toilet, maybe? Just until lunchtime?”  
He went down the corridor, so as to plead with Sem without anyone seeing through the window. The lone elderly customer was engrossed in the Sun's sport pages and would, Patrick knew from recent evidence, soon turn to the Racing Post.  
Sem came out of the kitchen to join him. “You want me to lose my job?”  
“No, but Eyan wouldn't, he needs you! Please, Sem? Isn't there a back alley I could leave her in? In a cardboard box?”  
  
Sem pondered a moment. “That could work. _Oui_.” He fumbled with a bundle of keys dangling from his belt and opened the back door. It was a narrow alley, some four feet wide, running along the parade of shops. A fire escape landed at each end, and huge extractor fans stuck out of each establishment. Patrick wondered, idly, why a barber’s would need such a huge fan? The view consisted mainly of a pointless wooden fence running along the back of an ugly office block, but there were rusty railings on the outside of the toilet window, making a safe space behind where a box could be placed. Probably originally intended for a window box, but petunias really weren’t going to improve this thoroughfare.  
  
“Those boxes – this one from baked beans will do. If I put her in here… oh, we’ll need a lid, she’ll push up the flaps if she gets in a flap, heh… That cardboard with the tinned tomatoes on, could you take the plastic off? _Merci_.” The cardboard tray indeed made a snug lid, so he dropped the gauntlet and bird in, put the lid on, and wedged the box outside the window. “The area looks classier already,” Sem muttered sarcastically. The bird screeched.  


“Oui, c'est vrai,” Patrick affirmed, pretending to take the French comment at face value. “She’s calming down, now. Do you have some meat – she'll be much calmer if she has a snack? No, not bacon, too salty. Yes, those trimmings should be fine. I’ll drop them in.” Sem was happy to stand behind Patrick as he gingerly raised the corner of the lid and dropped some stringy beef offcuts, a beak slightly grazing his finger. “Can you spare a… green thing you clean dishes with? Yes, a dish sponge? If it's full of water I can wedge it here, so, and she can have a drink. OK. I've done my best. I'll check on her at lunchtime and collect her after school. Tell Eyan it was all my fault! Thanks ever so!” He rushed to class, feeling that his French lacked vital culinary vocabulary.  
  
At lunchtime, the hawk appeared calm; not in pain nor fearful, to Patrick’s immense relief. Eyan had said merely, “Go down the alley when you take her away this afternoon. No birds coming through my shop, ta. And that's 50p you owe me, for an extra pack of sponges.”  
  
After school, Patrick went through the cafe, was granted access to the alleyway, and managed to retrieve the bird and sidle out of the alley, in the direction away from a gaggle of weed-smoking barbers. He walked briskly home with the box, and eyed it on the kitchen table whilst he made a mug of tea and decided how best to make a home for her.

 

His father had said he could use the far shed as a 'den' - he'd thought the idea childish at the time, then merely impractical in the weather, but it would serve as a reasonable hawk-house for one bird. Possibly another, to keep the first company... It wasn't yet too wintry, so he had plenty of time to source some plasterboard and insulate a bit, before it became properly cold. The shed was thankfully dry inside; avoiding damp was always key to hawk health. Not necessarily sufficient, admittedly, but unlike Jon he’d not had to suffer through finding a bird dead on its perch. Or off, presumably. They couldn’t hang on when dead, could they?Monty Python’s dead parrot was still upright, but that wasn’t rigor mortis, it had been nailed to its perch… And John Cleese was hardly an authority on falconry! He chuckled to himself as he nailed a couple sticks together to make a temporary perch, filled the spare dog bowl with water, and ran down to the butcher to beg some giblets, before they shut. Begging didn’t work. This was London, where everything had a price, in this case twenty pence a pound, but he paid up without complaint.  
  
Finally, the bird – she'd need a name – was content in her new accommodation. He sat watching her for a good half hour, studying all her movements, deciding what assistance her wing would need, and simply luxuriating in owning a hawk again. Though mindful of his father’s concern that given access to hawking, he would bunk off school all the time to do so, he managed to tear himself away, and he settled inside to work on that fiendish History essay. Assessing the influence of those innumerable court favourites, whose names kept changing...  
  
“You did _what_?” his mother exclaimed at the dinner table.  
“It's all right, Helena. Patrick's looked after hawks before. You said this one was just until her wing was better, didn't you, Pat?”  
Patrick nodded, vigorously. “That's right, Pa. It was only because the centre couldn't take her.” Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? The phone voice, presumably the boss, hadn't even asked who he was.  
“Very well, then. Didn't you say, you were getting a part-time job there – that should cover the costs?”  
He nodded, again, before remembering – _blast!_ that the job no longer existed. He'd have to find money from somewhere else, or cease patronising Eyan's establishment… no, he’d still have his regular teas there, but coffee and fry-ups would have to decrease...

 

A rummage through his funds made it clear: he needed more money if he were to keep the bird for long. A postal order from his grandfather for his birthday was six months away, and asking his parents for more pocket money was not an option; the Ginty phone-call saga had made _that_ perfectly clear. Mr Merrick had been most cutting regarding the costs of long-distance. His mother had merely confirmed that she deemed the Child Allowance an appropriate value for his pocket money – and _surely_ he wasn’t contradicting the Government’s assessment of his needs, she had asked. Ostensibly rhetorically, though he suspected at least a _bit_ tongue-in-cheek, knowing Ma.

 

He was uplifted to read in the paper that the amount was going up, but it transpired that still amounted to less than the seven pounds a week he received into his account, to cover bus fares and lunches, etc. So much for the bus; it would have to be Shanks’ pony to school from now on, that, or risk his bicycle in the crush of the school sheds; metal graveyards, _they_ were. He mulled over various fantastic plans for earning money, discarded them all, and hoped to come up with something over the half-term.

 

Patrick was proud of his self-restraint at the centre the next afternoon, when Danny leered at him, calling “I saw you with a bird yesterday. In the High Street. Suits ya. _Bird-brain_!”. He managed to reply merely, “Hi, Danny,” and walk off, but was remarkably pleased when Danny left after tea and shouted out, “See ya, Birdie!” with surprisingly little malice.

 

He decided to name the hawk Jessica. She reminded him somewhat of Miranda West – self-confident to the point of arrogance, dark and beautiful, always on the lookout for people’s reactions – and he’d heard she’d played Jessica in the latest school play. _Merchant of Venice_. Religious typecasting, she’d complained, when visiting Trennels, but he was sure she’d have the same stage presence as she’d had in the Minster as a Candle Angel. Silent, watchful, gorgeous – yes, Jessica was a good name. He didn’t fancy Miranda as a person, though he found her presence entertaining enough, but she certainly was decorative. He’d _definitely_ gone off blondes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter. The next will be longer.  
> Many thanks to Jackmerlin for advice on hawks; any remaining errors and all French mistakes are my own.


	5. Chapter 5 Half-term

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-term at Meriot Chase. There are Marlows!

Half-term meant 'home', in Dorset. Though London finally felt like home to him, and as it became more familiar, his sense of connectedness with Meriot Chase waned. Conversely, with Jessica the sparrowhawk installed, the family pile felt domestic again. _Home is where the hawk is_ , he joked to himself, and wished Jon Marlow were alive to appreciate that witticism.  
  
As soon as Jessica had been given a flight, as well as she could with one wing damaged, he was sent over to the Marlows on an errand. He was grateful to his mother who had picked up all the latest gossip, in her reliable wife-of-the-local-MP way: secure in the knowledge that Ginty was safely in Ireland, and that almighty tit Giles safe in a tin can elsewhere, he almost looked forward to seeing the others. _Almost._  
  
A blonde bobbed figure ran up to him, Nicola, presumably. Moving a bit differently, somehow, from more growing up; perhaps new shoes? “Patrick! How are you? And how’s London? Oh, guess what? Edwin found more about your family and Gilly Merrick and all, in one of his archives. I'll bring it over, what he wrote to me...”  
  
She was being too cheerful about his distant ancestor Gilly, martyred for the Faith. And too casual. _All wrong._ And then he realised what Nicola-being-wrong meant.

“Lawrence Marlow, you are a horrible specimen of humanity. Where's the real Nicola?”

Lawrie kicked the grass dejectedly. “What clued you in? Don't tell me, it was the shoes. Nick's clod-hoppers slopped around dreadfully on me, I couldn't do it. So I'd be walking wrong. That's it, isn't it?”  
He assented, that was it. He didn't care to explain the rest, though he might, to Nicola herself.

“I think Nick's home, swotting. She's as bad as Peter was last year. All books and secrecy. _Says_ she doesn't want to go to Colebridge Grammar like he was thinking, but _I_ think she's wanting a scholarship somewhere. Wellington takes girls in the Sixth, now, _and_ it has mixed Cadets...”  
  
“Couldn't be more bonkers than that Kingscote place... ”  
“It could, really. But a fresh start for Nick mightn't be so bad. Keith will never un-judge her. Though of course it would scupper Tim's plans to direct us in Comedy of Errors...”

“And does _Nicola_ get a say in choice of play to star in?” 

Lawrie looked sideways at him, startled under her fringe. "She could say. She just knows I'm right, when it's plays. _She_ can choose who goes where on the cricket pitch. Or netball. Or any real-life plans. _Quite_ happy to leave those minutiae to her. Oh, there's Tibbles!" She ran off after the Dodds’ cat, and Patrick shook his head. Conversation with Lawrie so often left him feeling like Alice in Wonderland, plain bewildered.

Which made Lawrie the Queen of Hearts, he supposed. Thank _goodness_ the girl couldn’t have anyone beheaded.  
  
He gave Mrs Marlow her parcel, then ran into Peter. He was at a loose end, he informed Patrick; Nicola was now out shopping, Rowan in the fields, Ann visiting friends for the day.

“All right?”  
“Me? Yeah. _Don't_ you sound London, now? How's the modern educational establishment?”  
“Good,” Patrick replied, not thinking, then realising to his surprise that it was so. “They educate, and leave off doing owt else, mostly. Teachers vary from bearable to excellent, students likewise... Lots of essays... How's _your_ place?”

“Similar, I suppose. More maths problems, less essays. Quite reasonable, now I'm on their new engineering programme rather than being groomed for officering. Couple chaps are helping me there, me getting extra maths and A-level prep rather than all the jingo exercises. But still, all _grimly_ determined to serve Queen and Country, a whole bloody armada of naval clones... I mean, Selby's OK, a few others, but no-one else really to speak to... Just squaddies with nicer elocution. _Oh hell-air. I'll knock back ten pints, yah_?”  
“And you can only down four before landing supine, and can't keep up?”  
“Har-bloody-har. Couldn't keep up with them if I tried. Financial issues...”  
“Ah. Know the feeling.”  
“Yeah? Ah, well. Sympathy, mate. Catch you later?”

Late in the afternoon, Nicola came over to admire the new bird.

“You should come down one weekend,” Nicola commented, off-hand, taking Jessica on her fist. “Invite a few of your London mates, ones you could trust not to trash the place. Any nice chaps going?”  
  
Patrick realised, less ruefully that he’d expected, that he had totally burned his boats regarding Nicola. He couldn't blame her; he liked to think he was growing out of awkward adolescence, but remembering so many things he'd said and done – or _failed_ to say or do – over the last five years was toe-curling embarrassing. And Nick had seen the worst of it. _Ginty…_ He regarded Nicola almost as a sister, now, but supposed there would always be hints of ‘what might have been’. On his part, at least.

Nicola was now fifteen to his nigh-eighteen; the gap seemed larger than it had. He was thinking about life outside of and after school: she was still surrounded by boarding-school chummery and insular community cares. He recalled Rowan saying how she'd found she didn't miss Kingscote, with it all seeming terribly  _young_ once she was working Trennels, and empathised with her. Being trapped in a school, in contrast to his sixth-form freedom in North London, seemed a horribly juvenile existence, and being shot of it mean t that somehow he didn't feel the same camaraderie with Nicola as he had in previous hols. 

He suddenly felt sympathy with Claudie, who'd had a similar  age  difference, older than him, though he  _hoped_ he wasn't as condescending as she'd been. Did such age gaps matter once you'd left school? He supposed they wouldn't, so much.

He couldn’t see Andrew or Samir, rooted in the now, appreciating Nicola and her ideas and sense of history. Nor Kieran, the daft football-obsessed noggin. _Definitely_ not the back row in History, whose snurking at all things female he wouldn’t allow anywhere _near_. He shrugged. “Inoffensive enough, but you’re not missing much.”

Though that seemed rather rough on both Samir and Andrew; he’d come to like Andrew’s deadpan asides and, very differently, Samir’s practical humour and taking charge of everything, full of confidence and enthusiasm. If only Rowan Marlow could act as relaxed as Samir – it might be better for her. He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Rowan, landed with a farm struggling to earn its keep, unexpectedly losing her farm manager, just as the subsidies went down, and _then_ those odd snipes from Giles, who possibly couldn’t help lording it over her, all son-and-heir? Though given the credit Nicola seemed to apply where Giles was concerned, he probably  could and _should_ help it perfectly well. Especially after last January, scaring them all to death. The tosser.

“Ah, well. Like I’ve got time, with O-levels and First Team netball and all.” Nicola clapped him on the back, all matey of a sudden. Fraternally, even – no, _soror ..._ Sisterly, that would have to do, but he heard Erin’s voice: “half the time the Latin for female words never gets to English, and even when it does, it’s never with the same connotations. Avuncular vs auntly, spinster and bachelor…  Patronising, that’s what it is.” And Ms Masefield had pointed out that ‘patronising’ itself came from _pater._ "I rest my case", Erin had replied, hands demurely in her lap. 

He rather wished Nicola _was_ his sister; a sibling or two might have diluted the parental impact upon him. He’d always felt outnumbered by his parents, even if he hadn’t been intimidated by his mother all by her lonesome… Though six sisters would definitely be too many; he didn’t envy Peter that. He wondered how it might be, Nicola at the breakfast table being sisterly and way too jaunty of a morning, and then realised that of course, if you got Nicola, you’d have to have Lawrie too, two for the price of one, and decided it was just as well he didn’t have to deal with _that_.

He cycled into Colebridge to continue the step-and-fetchit required by his parents. His mother’s re-heeled shoes would be ready given half an hour, so Patrick entered the Red Lion seeking a well-deserved half. He looked about for somewhere to sit, and spotted Rowan Marlow at a large table in the nook by the fire, display of horse-brasses over her head. Dithering as to whether to leave her in peace or go over – which would she prefer? – he was relieved by her catching his eye and gesturing for him to join her.

He plonked himself down and nodded to her. They sat in companionable silence for some minutes while they sipped their drinks. At least, he supposed it was a comfortable silence, but questioning that fact to himself made it suddenly _un_ comfortable, and he felt the need to break it.

“Cheers.” _Inane_.  
“To our good health.” She tipped her pint-glass the smallest degree towards him, then knocked back a good swig. Perhaps fearful she'd sounded too sarcastic, she continued, “How's it going, new school in London and all? I heard you'd acquired a new feathered friend. Nick was most envious.”

He nodded. “A sparrowhawk. Smaller than Regina, bigger than Sprog.”  
Perhaps eager to head off a monologue on hawks, Rowan burst in, “And school? One hears about inner-city establishments... I'm sorry, I'm going all elderly-aunt, how's school, ooh haven't you grown – you have, actually...”  
“Five-eleven, now. Though I think I've stopped. Would have been nice to hit a round six foot.”  
“You never know. Men grow until about twenty-one, sometimes." He noted the use of _men_ , not _boys_ , and wasn't sure how he felt about that – but he was drinking alcohol, he couldn't really complain...  
“Also, Hampstead – you must remember it, it's really not inner city. Way too nice and leafy.” Mentally so, even on the streets without wide tree-lined pavements. “The school's more Belsize Park way, but still _achingly_ respectable. Practically like my old day school, with more local accents. And the teachers just expect you to learn and work and don't interfere with the rest of your life.”  
“How remarkably civilised. I was wondering how you’d get on, had you figured as more ‘the man content to breath his native air’.” She sighed, took a sip. “I might have stayed with education if it had been like that.”  
A platitude, or serious? “Really? Regrets?”

“Not really. Just, my thinking was more leaving-Kingscote than starting-farming-Trennels, if you see what I mean? I'm lucky it's worked out, becoming a _'Lady Farmer'_.”

“I suppose you'd expected Mr Tranter to be on hand until you'd got up to speed?”

“Mm. Yes, I rather had, but to be honest, if I'd had him still to rely on, I'd be _more_ likely to have chucked it in. That first winter – I swear, mangold clamping and that never-ending lambing season had me so near quitting every morning! Whereas what it is _now –_ a ticking-over business, might even be quite an income over the next few years given some luck – fine weather, no new taxes or regulations from MAFF – that's _mine_. I did it, with help from the people I found locally – that's what I'm here for tonight, local NFU meet up. My business, quality sheep that people look for at auction, some crops the local arable chaps call pretty decent, that's all _me_. No-one can take that away from me."

But Trennels being entailed was what had got Rowan into farming in the first place. “What about Giles? The entail?”

Rowan set down her pint firmly. “Dad and then Giles own the _land_. The business – all the machinery, the stock – is _mine_. If they – Giles – started charging rent, he’d have a fight on his hands.” He'd never seen her look so grim, like she'd seriously thought of applying the gelding techniques used on rams to her elder brother. “The law's changed. Can't create entails any more, and it wouldn't cost too much to get lawyers to break one. Resettlement, it's called – the new heir gets an annuity for life, which I could share to persuade him if really necessary...”

She'd thought about it, clearly. Patrick hoped it wouldn't come to that – of such things came feuds lasting generations...

If it did come to it, which side would the various siblings take? Ann, probably Giles, supporting law and conservative order. Karen? He guessed Rowan's, still guilty over the Tranters' cottage. What about Nicola? He rather thought that the shine had worn off Nicola's idealised image of her big brother, after that ridiculous and illegal trip to France, while apparently in school, Nicola was held up as a second Rowan. Lawrie would refuse to get involved but probably side with Nick and Rowan. Peter... Would he feel the need to support his only brother? He supposed it must be rather galling for Peter, the much-minor second son, never going to inherit. Though then various Agatha Christie plots occurred to him, the jealous younger brother dispatching the elder, and of course Peter _had_ murdered a spy and Jael the falcon already - ' _has previous,_ ' as they said on The Bill.

He reassured himself that Peter was older now, wouldn't shoot in a panic, except he _had_ , in the Shippen, not checking that pistol, the great galumphing galoot... He shivered: if Peter did want to dispose of Giles, it would be far too easy to make it look like an accident, especially with Giles's own genius for near-death incidents. Surfrider, for e.g. And that thing in the Falklands, that Peter had made him swear not to tell anyone about, even Nick...

He gulped a large mouthful of his cider, and focused on calming his imagination. Thing was, when it came to it, he _liked_ Peter. Not just him, people generally did like Peter. And it wasn't like he ever acted in malice – everything had been accidents, tragic or otherwise. No, he assured himself, Peter wouldn't have the sustained planning or motivation for murder. And hoped that were true.

Patrick realised he'd left a long gap in the conversation, blushed, and took another gulp.

“Sorry, I'm boring you,” Rowan said, making him feel worse. He checked his watch – it had been over twenty minutes, close enough to the half-hour he'd promised – and he downed his glass and fled.

So much for growing up over the last half term – he was still the tongue-tied awkward fool, soon as he was back home. Bloody Marlows.

London would be a relief.

 

Peter wandered over the following day, citing boredom and an overdose of sisters.

“All my stuff’s in London now, so not much choice of music or anything.” Patrick made excuse, worried about being a sub-standard host. “Not sure what there is for lunch, either. Fancy going down the pub instead?”

“I'd prefer not the pub, actually. I'm a bit – lot – skint.” Peter reddened, clearly embarrassed.

“Skint, again? Allowance can't be that stingy?”

Peter didn’t want to mention the ill-advised card game, but let on that he'd put a bit too much on some gees which had acted like the _naggiest_ of decrepit nags...

“Betting on the gee-gees? You _are_ a clot.”

“Don't _you_ start. I'll be OK to the end of term, have to be, now, but Christmas presents might have to be a bit scarce.”

“At least you're good at making things.”

“True, but there's no woodworking facilities at Dartmouth. Not much I can do with a mere whittling knife. Nor any chance of a weekend job to earn owt. Bet _you_ could have one, if you wanted? None of that ‘I don't think that's appropriate’ from your head chap?”

“True. Not that I've ever met Sully – head chap – you understand. Thought I had one actually, at the bird place I work at, but it fell through – boss didn't feel like paying anyone extra, apparently.”

“Should have stopped volunteering. Then they'd’ve needed you.”

“I considered that.” He had. “But the staff they have – Jill and Steve – they love the birds and would just do even more unpaid overtime. Like they did before I showed up, I guess.”

“Oh well. Suppose they could at least get you discounts on anything you need for Jessica.”

Patrick stared.

“You hadn't thought of that? You could probably take all the food she needs for the asking. Oh, you naive child!”

“Oi, who's the child here?”

“Takes one to know one,” Peter taunted, tunelessly and without malice.

Patrick flicked him a V-sign – he couldn't bring himself to gesture with a middle finger like some of the kids did, sit and swivel – some things were just _too_ crude. “Still need money to cover bus fares and any snacks beyond my packed lunch. I used most of November's allowance already to board out Jessica's lodgings...”

“Ouch. Suppose you could tell your ma you're having another growth spurt and getting extra hungry?”

“Supposing Ma were both blind and daft, you mean? I'd better be looking for a job, but could only really do one night a week, so I'm not getting my hopes up. But Jessica's not going to be ready to release until Spring – it's too cold now.”

“Even if you did want to let her go.”

Patrick ignored that, knowing it was true.

“Patrick?”  
“Mmm?”  
“I hate to ask, but... you know the packet from that pigeon?”  
“Still got it, probably worth a few grand _if_ one can rely on anything in the Evening Standard – as if! _N_ _o_ idea who I could sell it to.” No go. He’d thought of it many times, especially in the last week.

  
“Come on, you must know _someone_ who could? At least pass you a name?”  
“Jukie didn't give me his little black book before inconveniently snuffing it, no.”

A low blow, and Patrick hated himself for saying it, but the capsule was too tainted by association for him not to. 

“That's _not_ what I meant, and you know it. Don't be a tosser. We can't bring him back. But you're at that hip urban establishment... _Some_ must indulge, or know a man who does.”

“Same to you, posh place with nothing else to do on ship. Except sex, I suppose.” Another unstoppable lash of the tongue, though he didn’t expect it to be taken seriously.

Peter ignored the last comment. Really, Patrick was getting too good at snarky repartee. He concluded therefore that Patrick must have acquired friends to practice on, and felt proud of his detection skills before hiding a wince at Patrick’s accuracy. Generally gambling was the vice of choice on ship, albeit with debts frequently paid off via various favours... but Patrick didn’t need to know about any of that. Back to his main point. “Including no way of handling ready cash. You... You're sixth form, day boy, freedom, _complete_ different kettle of haddock. Or what about your tutorial place, wasn’t that where wasters get sent for their re-sits?”  
  
Peter was, annoyingly, right. A few boys at Dartmouth might partake of the odd bit of blow, but most likely only ones significantly older than Peter, who wouldn't have money on them on operations, when he might just be able to bring up the topic. Whereas with all London at his disposal, if someone knew someone, just not anyone too scary... the attack by Kinky featured in more dreams than he'd ever admit. If he’d stayed in contact with any of the Broomhill lot, a fair few would have been perfect for the purpose – them being smashed during too much of the last year was why half of them were there, after all. But there’d been a polite fiction that the place didn’t exist, was outside of time and their lives, and would never be mentioned again. He and the other couple dozen denizens had taken their leave of each other civilly, but, at least on his part, lacking any new entries in his address-book.

  
“I'll ask around. _OK._ No guarantees, mind. And don't expect more'n a couple hundred, max, because punters aren't going to pay prices for uncut stuff they don't want anyway.”  
  
Peter was agreeable with that. “Sure. There's an obvious solution there, of course. _Dilute to taste_ , just like Ribena.”

“I'm not touching it!” 

“I'll do it, then. I've got neater fingers, anyhow. No-one'll miss white sugar from the kitchen.”

“But what about little baggies, to put the divided bits in? Where do you even _get_ such small bags from?” 

“Games Workshop, I believe. For the spods to put their lovingly-painted lead orcs and goblins in. So, no way, I’m _not_ going in there!” 

Patrick didn't feel the need to defend his small collection of D&D figures that he'd had at prep school, which Jon had politely admired despite the blobby paintwork, and which he’d never brought himself to chuck out. He thought for a minute. “You could nick some clingfilm from the kitchen while you're there?”  
“Ah, that'd do, I suppose. Do you have the thing with you?”

  
Patrick nodded; he kept the old socks it was balled up in, in the side pocket of his holdall. He felt the need to keep it with him, for some reason he couldn’t explain.  
“Cool. I'll get the stuff and a Stanley knife and some board, and we can do it in the Shippen.”  
“No we can't, you daft gormless clod. Any traces ever found would be so obviously you, even if Rowan _doesn’t_ suddenly feel the need to come investigate its potential for extra storage. S’got to be somewhere public, but deserted. Like the woods, or a cave down at Lulworth Cove."  
  
_Where Surfrider had been wrecked_. The land Peter had been happiest in his whole Naval life to see, at least once Giles had recovered consciousness... He could tell Patrick realised this too. “Woods, then,” they agreed, planning for the next day.

“Don’t expect me to actually manage to sell the stuff.”

“Not. Just being prepared.”

“Right. Dib, dib, dib.”

“Ooh, yu’z all a-funnin’, ent, ye? Stop yourn werritin’.”

Patrick rolled his eyes as Peter pushed his bike back towards the halterpath.

He went to the stables where Jessica was perching in solitary state, and ten minutes later let her soar over the moor, calming himself with her every movement, even if she was still favouring one wing over the other, not able to swoop exactly where she meant to. The stiff breeze in his face blew away his fears, replacing them with the bliss of solitude. Having the stuff ready to sell didn’t mean he had to, it was just to show sympathy to Peter... He ran after the hawk, wishing he’d brought a horse, but Mr Buster really was past it, just a grandfatherly equine lawn-mower, now. The grass was spongy underfoot in the dips, tufty on the peaks, making stepping awkward, and he fretted he’d lose Jessica or twist his ankle, not sure which might be worse, but then the sparrowhawk plopped back onto his gauntlet, hardly a hint of difficulty in balancing there, and he grinned at her as she grabbed the pieces of meat from his fingers. It might be cupboard love, but she liked him. His heart filled with pleasure.

Patrick and Peter reconvened the next morning, because Patrick could think of no reason not to. It was a windless day, autumn leaves hanging doggedly on, piles of leaf litter and acorns carpeting the clearing in the woods behind Meriot Chase, still summer-dry. Patrick took a deep breath – this was where his involvement crossed the line from just being there, just happening to end up with a half-ounce of wholesale neat cocaine – _fifteen grams_ , coke was measured in grams, going by the papers – to carrying out a criminal activity on purpose. He drew his new line: he wasn't going to be pushing it on anyone, they'd get it from someone else… even if he ever did manage to sell the stuff, chance would be a fine thing...  
  
Peter snipped off seven squares of clingfilm for Patrick to hold by the edges, took one back, clipped off the end of the capsule with his knife, and shook a pinch into it. He screwed it into a ball with his pliers. “Sample of your wares.” He passed the ball to Patrick who put it in a carrier bag, and wordlessly waited. Peter shook out the capsule – Patrick had assumed it was gelatin, like an oversized cod-liver oil capsule, but it seemed merely doubled-over cellotape – onto his scrap piece of plywood, added a spoonful of caster sugar, and carefully mixed the two. The heap of powder was neatly scored into six, and each small pile scraped onto a clingfilm square to make into another wodged-up ball. Peter poked them all into the carrier bag and Patrick put it into his inside coat pocket. He shivered. What _was_ the legal penalty for dealing class As? As an adult, if he didn't dispose of this lot within the next five months? _Life,_ probably.  
  
Peter wiped his knife on a tissue and buried the tissue and board in the soil. “Job done. No fingerprints on these, even. You could always claim Jukie gave those to you and you didn't know what to do with them, or that you were trying to save his reputation a bit for his grandparents...”  
  
Patrick exhaled, relaxing. He could, indeed, blame it all on Jukie. It seemed particularly shabby to plan on using a dead man as an unwilling lying alibi, but of course dead men contradicted no tales. And an MP’s son would probably not suffer too much interrogation… The police had been most respectful, last time.

Patrick surprised Peter by requesting the broken capsule and attached jesses back, as souvenirs. “Yeah, well, no idea who I might shift the stuff to. I'm not risking life or limb over it, so we _know_ I'll be ripped off...”

“Sure. If I do find a potential buyer, I'll let you know. Though on our pay, an eighth of grass is pushing it. I mean grass, actually – Ricksy came back once having bought some in Brixton, thought he'd got a good deal, but everyone who tried it swore it was pure lawn clippings!”  
Patrick laughed. Curiosity rose. “You didn't partake?”

“Not that lot, no. I mean, I have, couple times, but it didn't do much for me and the _stink_... sticking to booze, thanks. You've ever?”

“Been offered, it was OK, never tried seeking any out for myself. Would probably end up with garden lawn like you say.” He shrugged. He’d tried some a few times at Broomhill, but if he was honest with himself, he had failed to stay in touch with anyone on that scene out of pure social incompetence, never knowing when to ask for something as intimate as a home address, recognising the embarrassment from his peers at their being there at all. Now as long as Peter didn't try quizzing him on things Patrick _had_ done that he was fairly sure Peter _hadn't_... He changed the subject. “How's Selby?”

“All right. He actually _likes_ all that commanding and scoring points on exercises, the daft tyke. _And_ people obey him. You wouldn't think it, he's nothing like Giles, say, doesn't come across as an officer off-duty, but somehow it works and he’s all quiet but yet he's in control. I can't do it at all, like Giles _or_ him. Thank god the folks finally agreed I can do the non-military option and quit completely after A's! I can't wait – no bloody essays, no bloody ships, no bloody Navy...”

“Paradise, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure it’s what Dante had in mind – the joys of engineering at some red-brick.”

“Rather you than me. The engineering, I mean. Though when I don’t make Oxbridge I’ll probably go for London, instead – does that count as red-brick?”

Peter shrugged, neither caring nor knowing. “Let me know if you manage to flog those things.”

“Will do.” He didn’t intend on particularly trying, though if there _were_ an easy option, it would be silly not to...

The things he did for a daft bird.

 

 

 

 


	6. After half-term

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick is enticed to the local night-club.

The first lesson after half-term was English. Patrick walked into school alongside Kathy and accompanied her along the corridors, which didn’t seem like a maze any more. 

“What did you do over half term?” Unsurprising, that Kathy would be the first to quiz him.  
He recited his lines that he’d rehearsed on the bus. “Back to the family place in Dorset. Dad did constituency stuff, loads of meetings... Went riding a bit, met up with friends nearby, the ones who used to live in my house...”  
  
“How was it, now you've been here for a while?”  
“Huh? We've been in the house for two and a half years, now. Oh, you mean Luke's? No change really, one not-local educational place is much like another, in as much as anyone cares...” _Here_ was an opening. Just for information... “The odd jibe about inner-London comps and the inevitable drug-addled population and violence... Had to let them down, admit I'd seen no assaults and wouldn't even _know_ where to find any drugs! Where would you get gear anyway round here? _Someone_ must, if you lot are like any other school, bloody loads circulating at my last two places, but can't say I've noticed any here...”  
  
Kathy raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Asking for a friend, are you?”  
“Really, not. Do I look like a hippy stoner... man?” He made a V-peace sign. “Just being nosey. Go on, you know everyone and everything. Giz the goss.”  
She grinned at him. “Where do I _start_? Er… there was Daz, and Amir and Aidey what got kicked out last year for being stoned out of their gourds in school. Though that was the last straw with them, trouble from the off... um, you know Danny at the club, his dad's been banged up again, for dealing or violence or both... And Michael's dad, I think. If you just want weed, though, talk to Samir's cousin Mehtab, upper sixth – she sorts people out. Or, do you know Terry the technician? In the labs. Skinny guy, floppy black hair? He can supply any time, but Mehtab is nicer. Probably cheaper, too.”  
“Poor Danny. And Michael. I did wonder, what Danny's home life was like...”  
“Shit. Clearly. All you need to know, really.”  
She wasn't saying something, but she was right, beyond the basic fact of a crap home life, it wasn't any of his business.  
“Just weed then? My country mates are going to be unimpressed; they're expecting wild tales of trips on acid and lots of local dodgy guys dealing coke in the pub.” 

“Oh sure, we've got them too. Lots. Mostly older blokes, not from school, though. Except... talk to Erin...” she chuckled.  
“ _Erin_???”  
“Not dealing, no! Can you _imagine_ , sweet little Erin? That innocent face and blonde plait? She could get half of Willesden hooked on smack if she was a dealer! Sell snow to Eskimos, she could. No, no, you know that brat Sammy Gorecki?” He didn’t. “Third year, ginger bob and freckles? Gob on her like a foghorn… She's got a big sister Alex, left last year, no, year before, and her brother's Simon, some years older. Erin looks pretty much like Alex, really uncannily similar if she does her make-up and all... So, when we go clubbing, Erin pretends to be Alex, and gets let in, because Simon's one of the main local dealers. The bouncers are scared of him… He's a nice bloke to hang out with, actually, really friendly, buys us drinks sometimes, though wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him, I’m guessing. Should have _seen_ his face when Erin was begging him not to snog her, because the security guards thought he was her brother! He plays along, now. So far, the real Alex has never turned up... _that_ could be a problem...”  
  
Patrick smiled too. The idea of another Erin was most pleasurable to consider, now he was suddenly considering it... “Where do you guys go, clubbing? Centre of town, or round here?”

“Central London? As if! We're not made of money, you know. Sometimes up to Edgware, but usually most of us just go to this dive on the edge of Cricklewood. You not been to Berlin, then?”  
He boggled at the change of subject, then grasped that Berlin was the name of the nightclub.

“Oh, you must! No, I don't care if you don't dance. It's a people-watching experience. Let's just say, it's where all the under-age drinkers go, tacky as hell, so you get anyone not let in anywhere else, alkies from Kilburn, us from school, all sorts of people wanting to get dancing early in the evening, cheesy pop, loads of dodgy dealing...” She looked sternly at Patrick. “You aren't planning on getting into drugs or selling to your mates back home, are you? For _serious_. It never ends well, and usually ends very badly for someone.”

“No, no way! Half a cider, that's more like me. Oh, OK, four or five Newkie Browns to make it a night...”  
True, and convincing, and Kathy giggled. “I want to see you after five bottles, now. The perfectly-behaved MP's son, out on the lash...” 

On arriving in the classroom, Kathy hissed, “Oi! Sandra! Erin! Fancy a night at Berlin on Friday? Ask everyone.”  
Andrew turned to Patrick. “Berlin?” 

“Local dodgy nightclub where people go, Kathy says. Alcoholics, all the white stilettos round handbags you can imagine, rabble from Luke's. Up for it?” 

“Sounds terrible. Why the hell not?”  
  
They met at Erin's, a small 50s semi behind Kilburn High Road. Patrick would have been gratified to know that he became known to her parents as _the one with the nice manners._ It made a pleasant change from being _That Merrick Boy,_ as he’d heard Pam Marlow refer to him. He suspected his name would be muddy forever, there.

A couple drinks each to fortify themselves, and Andrew and Patrick idly flicked through the TV channels while the girls – Kathy, Erin, Sandra, plus a friend Helen who had left to do BTECs elsewhere – disappeared upstairs, to do _things_ with make-up and hair. In Patrick's experience, they would return in an hour, all looking roughly the same, only with a bit more colour around the eyes.  
The doorbell rang, and Samir strutted in, looking smarter than expected in an ironed check shirt and gelled hair. Andrew offered him a beer from the near-empty carrier bag. 

“Nah, mate. Don't drink. Muslim, yeah?” 

“Oh,” Patrick said, feeling he ought to be embarrassed, but more so because he wasn't.

“Cool, more for me,” Andrew commented calmly, opening the can with a hiss. 

“You guys never been Berlin before? How d'you manage that, Andy? You're local, right? Someone said you live in Colindale.”  
There was a tiny pause before Andrew answered, “Nearer Hendon, but yeah. Bit of a trek to the other side of the North Circular, never really went there.” Patrick guessed, correctly, that Andrew hadn't been clubbing before with friends from school. He’d himself been dragged by some cousins a few times, which had been a less unpleasant experience than he’d feared, people too interested in their own dancing to notice the likes of him. He also concluded that Andrew didn't like being called Andy, which in turn suggested his disliked previous schoolmates _had_ done so. 

“Ta-da! How do we look?”  
It was a rhetorical question, he knew, so Patrick had the word ‘terrific’ on his lips before turning round.  
It froze there. Kathy looked great, as expected, a glittery shiny version of her usual self. Sandra and their non-school friend likewise. But sedate Erin, the perfectly-plaited schoolgirl, had suddenly blossomed into a mass of backcombed blondeness, with a shiny leather jacket and a skirt most _definitely_ above the knee, and blue eyeshadow bringing out her eyes, robin’s-egg blue. A few years later, Patrick saw the film Grease, where the transformation of Sandy was similar, yet less surprising. Eventually, a syllable escaped from his lips. "Wow!"  
Sandra nudged Erin. "Told you."  
  
A bus up the High Road, and they were dumped on the edge of an industrial estate at the far northern end of Kilburn, where it cut through Cricklewood and Willesden, a tangled mass of dual carriageway and M1 slip-roads in the distance. All was quiet and dark, other than the lights by one storage unit which flashed, "BERL N".   
They moved towards the lights, colourful moths, minding potholes in the tarmac. A queue of youth looking similar to themselves stood in front of them. They added themselves to the end. 

“Brrr”, grumbled Samir.  
“Oi Erin, soz, Alex, do your bit again!” Sandra elbowed her. 

“You think it'll work again?” 

“Fourth time’s the charm.”  
The seven of them meandered to the front of the queue and Erin, smiling, tried to walk straight in. The man-mountain on the door stopped her with his arm coming down; a solid crossing barrier. 

“Don't you know who I am?” Patrick had to admit he'd never given Erin enough credit before for sheer chutzpah. 

Unfortunately, the bouncer didn't. 

“No, love. Queue's that way.” They all stopped, hesitant to give in and move. It gave the bouncer enough pause that he whispered to Patrick and Andrew, “Oi, who is she?”  
Patrick tried to blink in assumed astonishment. “You don't know? That's Alex Gorecki. You know, Simon Gorecki's sister. Don't know what he’ll say if his sis can't get in...”  
The other bouncer overheard. “Shit, mate! Let them all in, for Christ’ sake!”  
  
They were ushered into the stairway and up the stairs. Halfway up, out of earshot of the bouncers and any other group, Andrew murmured in Patrick's ear, “Who the _hell_ is Simon Gorecki?” 

“I have no idea, but apparently Erin looks like his sister, and this means she gets into clubs cos no-one wants to piss him off, whoever he is!” 

”Call me unadventurous, but what happens if this scary Simon guy shows up and _sees_ Erin pretending to be his sister?”

“Apparently that's happened already, and he thinks it's hilarious.”  
“Oh. Fair enough, then.”  
  
The stairway led them up to a dim landing, black-painted breeze-block walls not trying to make any good impression, nor blocking the beats of music from the dance floor. They paid £2 each through a plastic window and had their hands stamped in green ink, permitting them to pass through heavy double doors into the main cavern of the club. A heady scent of sweat, paint and alcohol wafted out. All paid up, they shuffled in, to be swamped by the thumping blackness and temporarily blinded by the flashing lights. 

“What're you havin'?” Samir yelled in Patrick's ear. Patrick mimed a pint, shrugged. Samir nodded and pushed his way through the throngs of people to the bar. Patrick realised Kathy was gesturing for him and Andrew to join them on the dance floor. He sighed, then realised this dim arena, people hardly visible in between being lit by pink or green light, smoke making everything smudgy, wasn't the stark harsh light of dancing at his cousins’ favoured trendy joints, or worse, any of his old schools. And, looking at Andrew and Sandra throwing their bodies around, dodging some very inebriated ladies, clearly neither musical sensitivity nor physical ability were requirements to blend in... Holding his plastic pint glass carefully so as not to spill, he practised a bit of movement to the music. By the time he'd finished that drink, he'd decided it was an amusing-enough way to spend some time, though he'd let Samir and Kathy own the dance floor, showing off their actual talent. 

He mimed with Erin, message from her successfully communicated, and went to the bar to get her a snakebite and black, plus one more for himself. He could get used to thinking of Erin looking like this, so much promise in that smooth pencil skirt... He waved and gave her a thumbs-up as he approached the front of the bar.  
  
A stocky bloke in a grey herringbone tweed great-coat next to him noticed. "What's her real name?", he asked. 

“Sorry?” It was impossible to hear without additional lip-reading, and Patrick didn't want to admit if he'd read this chap's mouth correctly. A facial coating of stubble, plus thick eyelashes and brows made him look ominous, despite the smartness of the coat and ironed duds beneath. Patrick guessed he was early twenties, though could pass for thirty, given his height and width.

“She's not my sister. Good resemblance, though. Nearly had me fooled, one time. What's her actual name?”  
Patrick blanched, choked on his sip. 

“Sorry, we haven't met. Simon Gorecki. You came in with the girl who pretends to be my sister.” He put out his hand and Patrick shook it automatically, but Simon seemed friendly enough. He recalled Kathy saying he _was_ pleasant, scary drugs aside. “Which I assure you I have no problem with, given I have myself a lovely lady friend, and thus regretfully have to give up any interest I might otherwise have shown in your pal.” He gazed over at Erin, shrugged. “Pretty, isn't she?”  
  
This, at least, was an easy rhetorical question. “Yes. I never really noticed, before tonight. School uniform does that.”  
"Luke's? Yeah. Managed to avoid the place myself. My little sisters went there – Alex did A-levels there, Sammy's fourth year now. Wee gobshite. Not that I'm one to talk, y'know. So, you new then? Not seen you around. Been here before? What's your name, anyway? Oh, don’t worry mate, I'm getting these, for you and what's her name?"  
They clinked glasses, which made no noise and merely bent the plastics slightly, sloshing a bit more than Patrick liked. Simon’s question had been firmer than the rest of his chatter, a clear message, _no more prevaricating._

”Her name's Erin. I'm Patrick. Yeah, started sixth form at Luke's in September. Not been here before, no.”

“Sorry it’s so loud we can't chat. It’s supposed to be loud on the dance floor, bearable elsewhere, to enable relaxed conversation, but the sound engineers keep cocking up... I’ll have to have a word. You give my 'sister' her drink, and I’ll see you about." He beamed genially, and gave Patrick a matey half-hug, theatrically, not the sort of behaviour you usually saw in Kilburn.  
  
Patrick went back to dancing, or rather, waving his body about to the noise, which occasionally broke into tunes he'd heard. Top Forty pop. He was more of a rock fan – especially in the privacy of his own room, where the odd tear could be permitted – so a lot of the dance tunes were new to him, but no-one could escape the eternal backdrop of Radio One. He saw Andrew belting along enthusiastically to "It's a Sin," joined in, confused by Andrew's quizzical expression. That one was on the radio all the time.  
  
He looked round at the crowd. Some scrawny guys in their thirties tried to sneak up behind Sandra and Kathy; both kicked backwards with their heels vigorously and the men fell back, _fail_. One tried the same on Helen and Erin, clearly planning to grope whichever one was in front of him at the time. Patrick moved towards them, trying to look fierce and scare him off, but it was Simon who got there first and pulled the mulleted guy away, hissing in his ear some sort of threat. Patrick's side-on lip-reading wasn't great, but he could decode "do that again and _I'll_ ..." with no problem.  
  
Simon nodded at Patrick, appreciating the sentiment. Patrick picked his way through the crowd to the toilets, following Simon, it turned out, amd was grateful to find they were quieter. His ears were ringing. A couple lads stopped talking and ran into cubicles when they saw Simon stalk in, coat swinging. 

Simon was intriguing, Patrick felt. Clearly other people felt threatened or fearful of him, but to Patrick, he seemed perfectly friendly. Of course, he'd felt the same about Jukie... Was _his_ radar for friendliness as badly-aligned as Peter Marlow's? 

Simon pissed in the far end of the urinal trough, hidden behind his coat. Patrick felt suddenly naked without one; decided to pretend he was waiting for a cubicle. Simon turned to Patrick, coat-tails swinging. The nerves that Patrick began to notice stopped being scared when he heard Simon’s words: “That Erin likes you. Do something about it, will you? Just remember, I like her...”  
Patrick, surprised, grinned at the spin on the classic ‘treat her right or else’ threat, and considered. Erin... He'd never thought of her in that way before tonight, but perhaps... 

“You reckon? As in, you reckon she does?”   
“Certain. She couldn't take her eyes off you when you came to the bar. Trust me.” 

“And you were looking at her...” He needed to know he wouldn't be treading on any scary toes. 

“Told you. Got someone, now. So just keeping an eye out for me little sis, as it were. It's expected.”

“Suppose. Does she really look like... Alex, was it?”

“Does done up like that, yes. It's the shape of the face, and the sweet, innocent look, that does it. Quite uncanny. I did a double-take myself the first time I met her. Don't worry, Alex wouldn't be seen dead here – she's all rocking round Central London, cluttering up Annabel's and all.” Patrick thought he detected a mild American accent under the London one.  
Patrick couldn't help the flicker on his face that betrayed he'd heard about Annabel's, the night club for the rich and famous, and, mostly, their coked-up offspring. The worst arrogant bastards at his previous school went there, or hung on the tales of their older siblings until they could pass for 18 and get in. It sounded ghastly.  
Simon noticed. He noticed a lot, rather like Patrick did. Patrick saw a lad wander past, the copper-brown of a ten-pound note in his hand and then it was in Simon's pocket. Simon pushed up his other coat pocket from inside, something touched the boy's fingers, and he grabbed it and was off. Simon saw that Patrick saw that, too. 

“You'd heard about that.”   
The voice was flat, factual. Simon knew what was said about him. 

“Yes. Never know how much to trust rumours, though.” Patrick tried to sound nonchalant. The lads in cubicles were too far away to hear their conversation, what with all the background noise. “Um.” _Now or never._  
The Dutch courage enabled him to ask, _“_ Would you be able to do me a favour?"  
  
Simon sighed, gave Patrick a look – disappointment, was it? “What do you want?”   
Simon meant what substance, he realised.  
“Oh, no, not like that! I don't, well, not a habit...” Aside from his crammer's having had plenty floating around, Claudie had once shared weed with him as well as other activities. He didn't mind it, a variant on his occasional cigarettes, but preferred the cheaper, known quantity of alcohol. “Thing is, I want to get rid of something...” 

“Flush it down the toilet, then. Or just bin it.”  
“S'pose. It's uncut coke, though.”  
  
The next look was easy to decode: pure disdain for the gullible child. “ _Right_...”  
“No, I'm serious. Did you read in the news, year-’n-half ago, about the cocaine-carrying pigeons? Using them to import from the Continent?”  
Simon held the sceptical expression, intrigued, but not yet willing to believe. “Yeah. Go on.” 

“OK... So used to live nearby, in Dorset, and I kept hawks, flew them round the moors.”  
“Hawks. Hawks and pigeons not being a good combination, I'm guessing.”  
Patrick nodded eagerly, starting to relax.   
“Exactly. So Regina – my falcon – caught a pigeon, and it had this capsule on its leg. An ounce, according to the papers, later.”

”Fifteen grams, metric ounce,” Simon recited.

“I guess. So, er, yeah…?”  
  
Simon was leaning back and forth slightly, creating tiny nods. “OK. And you didn't feel the need to take this to the plods?” 

“Well, we were going to, even though they probably wouldn't know what to do. Don't deal with much beyond drunk-driving in Dorset, and Tom Catchpole really isn't the finest of the constabulary...” He mimed, 'cuckoo'. “But _then,_ my tit neighbour lost the thing – by the time it turned up in the lining of her coat and I got it back, the importers had been busted and two of the kids involved in distribution were dead.” 

“Dead? From the gear?”

”No, no, don't think they touched the stuff.” Simon was easy to talk to, Patrick felt. Non-judgemental, he supposed. Like a priest who understood his confessand. “Only one guy – Kinky, they called him, _Bernard_ ,  he blamed me and my birds for a shipment getting lost, and we’d gone and started to explore their pigeon set-up. I know, I know, but he’d nicked my bike – _we_ didn't know it was going to be a den of international crime, run by a retired pigeon obsessive, on the edge of a sleepy village! So, Kinky tried to knife me, but then this other guy – Jukie – he got Kinky, and then Jukie made me drive round in a car all night, told me his life story, then he panicked and, well...”

“So he died, you came out unscathed?” Simon's deep brown eyes were full of concern. 

Patrick answered the unspoken question. “Could so easily have gone the other way...” 

“Mmm. So, this gear. You got a sample?” 

“Not on me. Thought we might get searched, going into a nightclub...”  
Simon's laid-back demeanour suddenly changed, as he indulged in a full belly-laugh. “Yeah! You might've! OK, what have you split it into, and do you have a tiny bit I can check?” 

“Six bags – clingfilm – and an extra bit, that’s about half a gram, I think...” 

“OK. When do you want to meet up? I'm not coming to your school, so don't suggest that. And how many of these friends know?” 

“I wouldn't. And none of them, I suppose. Monday morning is OK. I exercise my new hawk on the Heath early, then I'm at the caff across from school by eight, start the week with a fry-up... No-one else there, usually.” 

“Eight a.m.? The diligence of the school child... Oh well. For this, I'll do it. Get up early. See if it's what you say. If it is, I'll give you a fair price, but no haggling – we both know you've no other markets, and I don't want a nice lad like you getting hurt. You aren't the only one who's seen the nastier side of trade.”  
The drugs trade. 

“Sure. Out of interest, what _is_ a fair price nowadays? I can only go on what's in the Evening Standard...”  
Simon, who likewise set his prices by rumours in the Standard plus a finger in the air, replied, “I'd have to check. I usually get the stuff pretty diluted... You best get back to the dance floor. See you Monday. Good luck with my 'sister'!”  
  
Patrick, edging back into the area where his eardrums tingled, felt more nervous about Erin than having become a cocaine dealer. He gave her a smile as he started to move to, or at least in response to, the beat. A good song. _Ra-ra-Rasputin…_  
She smiled back at him and he beamed.  
  
He was still grinning broadly as he got the night bus home. Even the yowling drunk, likely-homeless odorous woman who plonked herself beside him couldn't dampen his spirits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any similarity to the local nightclub of my late teens, and the denizens thereof, is not at all coincidental.


	7. Chapter 7

Soon Monday came. Patrick dressed and scooped the smallest clingfilm ball into an envelope, and slipped it into his inside blazer pocket. The cold nausea of anxiety clenched his guts. Simon wouldn't be there; he would and he'd be undercover police; it was all fake and he'd be laughed at – oddly, this seemed to be by far the worst possible scenario. He walked to the café – for some reason transporting drugs via London Transport seemed more of a crime – and was partially relieved to see Simon sitting at a table in the window, designer stubble trimmed, but otherwise looking as he had on Friday, oversized tweed overcoat spilling out of both sides of the fixed seat.  
  
"What'll you have? Just tea? If you're sure." Patrick knew he couldn't eat anything. "Two more teas, here, please." Then, to Patrick, "Right, let's get this over with. You come, show me where the toilets are?"

  
Patrick steered Simon out back, past the stacks of catering-size tins of beans and tomatoes, the trays of eggs and huge sacks of teabags, to where the corridor opened out slightly just before the single toilet cubicle, all fitted out in clean but unmatched Formica leftovers. A door to the left led to the kitchen, the third door was the fire exit to the alley, indicated by a peeling sticker above it.  
  
No-one could see them from the cafe dining area, nor from the kitchen. "This'll do. Let's see it."  
Wordlessly, Patrick passed Simon the clingfilm. He watched Simon's stumpy fingers carefully unwrap the ball, not tearing it anywhere, until a tiny lump of whitish stuff was revealed on the skin of plastic. Simon brought it to eye level – was it a bit greenish? - then to his nose; not a snort, but there was a characteristic smell to it, certainly. Simon's large furry eyebrows raised high and stayed there as he reached out a finger and thumb and pressed them together around the lump. It smeared onto them. Hastily, Simon scraped it off his fingers, licked one and shuddered, and re-wrapped the sample, which he shoved in his pocket.  
"'Kin' ell…"  
Patrick couldn't stand to wait any longer, though it had been under thirty seconds since the parcel had been unwrapped. "Well?"  
As if waking from a trance, Simon blinked bleary eyes, gathered his thoughts, and turned to Patrick. "Amazing. Let's sit down. I need my tea."  
Still in a zombie-like state, Simon dropped four lumps of sugar in his mug, stirred, and knocked back half of it. Somewhat restored, he asked, "How much of this did you say you had?"  
"About fifteen grams, minus your bit."  
"And how many bags did you split it into?"  
"Six."  
"So each one is..."  
"About the same as a pound coin. Best I could say. Didn't have any scales that accurate, you see."  
"Yes. I know. That's what petty theft from school science labs is for. No, I don't recommend it." This avuncular advice given, he continued in the same genial tone of voice: "Now, thing is, mate, a pound coin is a good standard weight, so long as its not a fake, which one in ten is, and pretty good even so. So I know. Pounds are about three times what you just said the splits should be. So. _What did you cut it with_?" The voice remained light, but the subtext was not. A white cat on his lap would not have gone amiss.  
  
Patrick felt the meaning of the phrase, _shitting oneself in fear_ , thanked the gods he hadn't eaten since last night. Only the truth could – maybe – get him out of this one.  
  
"Just sugar, about two to one. It stuck, on the blade, otherwise." It was an excuse, not a reason.  
"Just sugar?"  
"White caster. Yes."  
"Thank fuck."  
Simon had sounded nearly as terrified as he did, but now less so.  
" _Qué_?"  
"You used sugar. Sugar's about as inert and inoffensive as you get. Soda – bicarb _or_ washing – is a fucking disaster – painful on the nostrils. Trust me on that one. And flour or stuff that isn't crystalline makes it all look wrong. Anyway, six packets, so two and a half actual in each, or bit under – OK.” He spread his hands, palms down, on the table, as if steadying himself. “I can take one off your hands every month. Two hundred each, used tens and twenties, blah blah…"  
"One a _month_? I kind of wanted shot of it..."  
"Sure, you did. But I can only _take_ what I can get shot of, extra to what I get rid of already, and believe me there's people I don't want to stop buying from suddenly." He shivered, which looked odd from such a solid-looking animal. "Deal, then. See you same time, same place soon? Tomorrow?"  
  
"No, I'm working at the bird rescue centre tomorrow. Wednesday, Kathy and the others might be here. Thursday?"  
"Thursday. Just the one, mind. Any more than that and I can't claim it's for personal use. Don't want to get done for drug dealing, do I! I’d be _such_ a disappointment to the old guard." He grinned, cheerfully downed the last of his syrupy tea, saluted Sem, and swept out. Patrick's eyes followed Simon through the window. His loping movements looked remarkably like skipping.  
  
Patrick exhaled. He'd survived. His hands were shaky. "Sem?"  
"Your usual? Bacon-two-eggs butty?"  
"Yes, please. To take away, though."  
  
Patrick shoved the last of the bacon roll into his mouth as he passed the school gates. His mother, not to mention his previous schools, would have been apoplectic at the idea of Eating In the Street Whilst Wearing School Uniform, though he suspected that dealing in class A's was almost expected of him now in the eyes of his prior educational establishments, being at an 'inner city comp',. Enjoying the products of a caff _at all_ was probably between the two on the scale of social sins... 

At 5pm, he turned up late to the centre, after Chaucer, which was less tedious than Mr Stubbs’ ability should have made it, exhausted, wishing he weren’t rota'd on a Monday. Kids were doing homework on the floor of the smaller room, and others running around the larger hall. 

As he walked through the hall on his way to the kitchen, he heard a yell, a thwack, a chair falling, and more shouting. Father Mike was pulling Danny off another, larger, kid, but this time Danny wasn't going quietly, effing and blinding that he _hadn't_ done anything, _anyone_ would have done the same.  
Father Mike brought him to the side. "Danny, what the heck was that about?" 

It took a minute before words could be understood out of the sniffling and swearing. " _Had_ to. He needed telling."  
"Telling what, Danny? What did he do?"  
"I had to, don't you see?"  
There were a few more rounds of this before Patrick overheard the answer, "He said, 'your mum'!"  
Patrick was confused. Luckily Monsignor Sebastian had entered the room and asked for him, "What eez wrong with saying, 'your mother'?"  
Father Mike hesitated, but a lad Danny's size piped up, "It's short for "your mum's a dirty great whore!"  
"Yeah," muttered Danny, who was still ineffectually reaching out to the first boy to try to land a fist, despite Father Mike gripping his collar, holding him back. A porky _Wile E. Coyote_ , Patrick thought. "Fuckin' bastard, talkin' bout my mum..."  
Father Mike tried to reprove the first kid, suggesting telling or implying lies was not on. He was pretending not to listen, gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

Kelly skipped past, stopped as she heard the commotion. "But it ain't a lie! His mum _is_ a whore!"  
  
It took both Father Mike and the portly Monsignor Sebastian to restrain Danny after that, as he roared in rage and threatened to spring towards Kelly, as if from a catapult. Patrick decided ushering Kelly and her big mouth out of the hall into the back room might be the way to go, though actually _he_ didn't want to be anywhere near Danny either. The kid probably weighed as much as he did.  
  
"Oi! You're shoving me! What for, you perv?"  
Patrick wheeled round. "Oh, _give_ it a rest. Just shut it for once, and maybe _don't_ piss off the psycho kid built like a brick shit-house?"  
She did shut it, amazingly. At least until Patrick had checked the progress of the evening meal, had her help pile up plates and set out the chairs and tables, and dished a portion up to each of them. Once seated, she broke the silence. "But, right, his mum _is_ a whore..."  
He felt he’d become his own mother, snapping back, "Even if that's true, do you think he wants to be reminded of it?” Might as well quote his pre-prep’s headmistress: “Was it useful? No. Helpful? No. Was it _kind_?" He didn't answer that rhetorical question, nor did he give Kelly the kind of glare a teacher would, but concentrated on his nosh. Not bad. He was getting better at glop to go on pasta or potatoes. What Rowan Marlow called _pommes au derriere du frigidaire_...  
“Apples with cold bottoms?” Lawrie had queried upon hearing the term, one hung-over Sunday.  
“Spuds à la back of the fridge.” Rowan rolled her eyes; seriously, how slow could her diddy sister be? “ _Fried up leftovers._ That limp celery can go in, too, Pete, just chop it small.”  
  
Back in the present, Kelly was talking, again. "So? He keeps walking past telling me my mum's an alkie, like I _didn't_ know. Don't catch _me_ going all King Kong in homework club."  
Patrick sighed again. He belatedly realised Kelly was not exaggerating. He wasn't cut out for moralising to infant young, and Kelly would see through any flannel. She was sharp as a tack, underneath her sweet little-girl disguise.

"Yeah, well, not saying Danny's any kind of good example. Just... He's a person, too, you know?" As he said it, he knew inside that he _didn't_ really rate Danny as human; all animal impulses and little enough communication he might as well be a different species. Porcine, probably. ‘Love your neighbour’ was bloody difficult at times, and frankly, attempting it with Danny was a level of beatification to which Patrick wasn't aspiring.  
"If you say so. _I_ think he looks like those man-pigs at the end of Animal Farm. We did that last year, in Junior Four. _And_ just as nasty.” She wolfed down her plateful. “I'd better go check on Mum, so I'm off. See ya tomorrow."  
  
It was a slow evening. Patrick felt he might as well head home; that essay on the Knight's Tale wouldn't write itself, and nor would the one on Candide, the sodding twit. As he exited the kitchen, Danny came past, Father Mike hovering close behind.  
"Fucking prick," Danny spat in passing.  
Patrick couldn’t be bothered to respond, suddenly too tired to do anything beyond ignore this stain upon humanity. He continued on his way out of the building.  
Footsteps trotted up behind him, and he turned to see Father Mike again, sleeves rolled up, black jeans and trainers, looking almost unlike a priest, dog-collar the only giveaway. "Sorry about that. Our volunteers are valued and shouldn't be spoken to like that."  
A truism. Cynically, Patrick said, "But they are, and it's your job to welcome and feed the Dannys of this world." He was well aware that some of the men who turned up later in the evenings were grown-up Dannys, lured only by the free food, after anyone else had refused to house them or spend time with them. Like foxes; vermin, what's the point of them being alive when they only make the world a worse place. The Daily Mail line. He thought of Ann, anti-hunting, arguing hotly that a fox was a beautiful woodland creature, versus Rowan's firmly practical, "Not on my farm or round my chickens, it’s not." He couldn't see Danny being beautiful anywhere, nor the bedraggled pugilistic alcoholics and other arseholes.  
  
"Feed the hungry, suffer the little children, love your neighbour. Not easy, is it?" Father Mike didn't seem to expect a response. "Danny's a little shit, isn't he?"  
  
Shocked, Patrick turned to Father Mike. Both the word and applying it to a child...  
"Come on, I'd be lying if I said he wasn't, and that surely would be a sin. But he’s my job – _not_ yours, don't feel obliged to do anything -"  
 _Sneaky_ , Patrick thought. Anyone who says don't feel obliged is trying to guilt-trip you... If he wasn’t in a dog-collar, Mike would pass as a sleazy city broker, all smart shirt and hair gel.  
"...my job is to welcome him, give him somewhere to be, that's safe. He's come a long way in the last few weeks – at the start of term he wouldn't even come in; now at least he's getting a hot meal." They locked step across the lobby. "Now, it's not your problem. Leave socialising Danny to the professionals – _we're_ trained and experienced in working with very difficult, disturbed youth, sadly. I'll just say one thing that might make it easier for you. That boy – and same goes for many of our other troublemakers – that boy is _desperate_ for attention. Any attention. He'd prefer to be beaten up than ignored. So he doesn't know it, but he provokes fights. I’m sure he doesn’t understand that himself, but it’s true. So I don't expect you to work with him, but just try saying hello in passing, and bye, see ya, and he'll probably ease off.  
“Anyway, thank you for all your help this afternoon, it _is_ much appreciated, and see you Thursday. Goodnight, Patrick."  
  
Patrick left, head spinning. A kid so lonely he wanted a fight – and he could believe it, the brat must be lonely, no-one wanted anything to do with him. Kathy's words came back to him: _Danny's dad's in prison, something violent_. Kelly: _his mum's a whore._ No brothers or sisters had ever been mentioned, so Patrick guessed Danny was an only child. He shivered. They had something in common after all.   



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October turns into November.

Thursday morning. Chaucer, History, French lit, but first, time to become a drug dealer, scourge of society. Though anyone less of a victim than chatty gorilla Simon was hard to imagine. His hand trembling slightly, Patrick tipped one wad of clingfilm into its own unlabelled manila envelope, put it in his inside blazer pocket as before, and, again, walked to the café, despite the light drizzle. His heart rate accelerated, especially when a police car sped past, nee-nahs blaring. The prosaic shop fronts and grey Art Deco blocks of flats all faded into the light fog, and he felt horribly visible, despite all the heads-down early commuters, intent on getting to their trains as fast as they could. Hunched over against the wind, he walked on, briskly.  
  
He arrived at the cafe, and found it empty, apart from a pair of Sun readers on one side and a harassed mother telling her kid to stay put until school-time on the other. He figured it would look odd to do anything other than wait inside for Simon, so Patrick requested a single mug of tea from Eyan and sat down by the window, looking out across the road. Red, white and blue cars, mainly, lots of work vans, some lorries and single-decker buses. A few kids in Luke's uniforms went past, presumably for before-school coaching and clubs. Athletics happened before school on Thursdays, he recalled, not that he’d ever dreamt of partaking. He drummed his fingers and tried not to shake the spoon against the cup as he added sugar, one lump, then a second. He raised it to his mouth for a fortifying slurp, then dribbled some down his chin as he caught sight of Simon alighting from a short bus – the C5, from Highgate – and running across the road, trademark coat flying out behind.  
  
Simon came in, the bell over the door jangling, and Eyan looked at him quizzically. He motioned to Patrick's table. "Another tea, please. And a bacon sarnie. Make that two?" Patrick nodded. "Two, please."  
"Here is your tea. I bring the other right over." As if on cue, Sem appeared in the kitchen and started frying.  
  
Simon came to sit next to Patrick, rather than opposite. "Morning. Horrible weather, isn't it. Sorry, my bus was late – I swear, everyone gets into vehicles when it rains." He swigged his tea. "Ah, that's better! Put it in my pocket, then. No-one's near."  
  
Patrick blinked and put his mug down. Before Sem or Eyan could come over, he reached into his pocket, hastily brought the rolled up envelope to his lap even though no-one outside could see even if they'd looked – the window was too misty – and, left handed, put it in Simon's coat pocket. Gone. No longer his problem.  
  
"I'll just nip to the bog," Simon said, and did so. A remarkably smart turn of phrase for your local druggie, Patrick thought, but then remembered, Simon had implied he didn't use the stuff himself. And Simon was clearly raised in both America and now London – but not local-dialect London, Maida Hill leaning towards West Hampstead one way, Kilburn and Willesden the other. Far side of Hampstead, more likely. The bus: _Highgate_. That was more plausible – where you lived with new money, rather than Hampstead where one’s European ancestors had bought, pre-war...  
  
In a flash, Simon was back, feigning nonchalance but clearly impressed. Patrick half-expected him to run out of the door, but no, there were the five more packets, weren't there? And here was Sem with the bacon sandwiches. _Definitely_ worth staying for. He half-giggled, thinking of what Sem would say if he knew his frying skills were suddenly deemed worth two hundred quid a sandwich!  
  
Now, what was the etiquette about demanding payment in this situation? He copied Simon, taking a generous bite. "That's better," Simon commented, pulling crumbs from his growing beard. "Oh, one moment..." He rummaged around his jeans – the pockets, Patrick hoped – and pulled something out which he shoved in Patrick's blazer. "Best go put it in your socks," Simon said. "Under your feet. Won't get lost in changing for PE and what-not. Off you go, should all be there."  
  
"In a minute. I'm eating this while it's hot."

Simon nodded amiably and they munched in companionable silence. Once he'd finished, Simon looked at his heavy watch – not a Rolex, but a similar chunky number, hands at ten to eight – and stood up. "I've got to go in a mo."  
Oh, Patrick realised. My turn for the facilities. He shuffled over and strolled down the corridor, hand on the roll of notes, elastic band around them. It didn't take him long to count, nineteen, twenty, and not much longer to put ten in each sock, comfortably folded under the arch of his foot. He took a deep breath. Mission accomplished; the rest would be simple repeats.  
  
"Sorted? ‘Til the last Thursday of the month then. 28th. See you here, same time. Good sandwich, yeah? Happy Hallowe’en!"  
  
There was nothing like the tedium of Mr Stubbs embarking on a monotone lecture about Old English linguistics to send one’s heart rate back to normal, though Patrick _might_ have skived off community service later that day, if Andrew hadn't ranted about the ‘brats’ in the caff that afternoon after French, and he’d found himself feeling unexpectedly sympathetic towards them. Well, to Kelly and Michael, anyway.  
  
Father Mike met him on the way in. "Good to see you. Just try saying hi when you wander past Danny. Nothing else. Give it a couple weeks." Patrick nodded. He even tried it an hour later, passing in the corridor, but, despite Father Derek hovering nearby, the response was still a growled, “Piss off.”  
The evening passed. Patrick rapidly gave up trying to get Michael to write down any of his story ideas for his homework, and retreated to join a couple non-school volunteers in the kitchen. He was just wiping down tables for dinner when Father Derek emerged from his office to make an announcement. 

He was suggesting an entertainment for the end-of-term, some kind of talent show perhaps, or a pantomime, to entertain younger kids and their parents? Patrick shuddered but learned in some relief that the intention was for the ‘service users’, not the volunteers, to be the act. The rumour spread by itself, so they didn’t need to ask what anyone thought.

The idea of a Christmas talent show seemed to appeal. A couple of the older lads proved skilful breakdancers, and one cocky kid responded with repeated back flips from a standing start, to Patrick’s hidden amazement. The younger group weren’t sure what they could do, and flapped about, distressed quacking ducklings. 

“One, moment. I’ve got an idea.” The priest returned. Somehow Father Mike had acquired a huge Betacam."I thought some of the kids could make a film about the activities here, with this. It's called a Camcorder."  
It seemed a great idea, but the smaller kids couldn't hold the bulky machine at all, let alone control it at the same time. Patrick ended up hefting the thing on his shoulder while Kelly and Michael ad libbed to a vague script. Michael in particular was articulate and clear, and his commentary wouldn't have been out of place on a BBC documentary. Kelly was her usual indomitable self, and made practical suggestions such as resting the heavy camera on a filing cabinet, so they could rotate it for panning shots and it would stay level, as well as giving Patrick's shoulder a rest. His forearms were strong from holding birds, but shoulders not so much. Danny made some passing insults but refused to join in. They’d filmed a few minutes before having to give up for the night. 

“Could you two take this back to Father Mike, please? You can carry it together, can’t you?”  
“Sure thing, boss!” Michael was in his element, hugely proud of himself. They looked at Kelly, oddly reticent. “C’mon, Kell.”

“I’m not going into the office! Father Mike gives me the creeps, always laying hands on you to get past and that.”

“Hey, you know where your food comes from!” Michael was firmly practical.  
“Don’t I just. Father Derek’s OK. But I don’t like _him_.”

“Are you saying he… he’s gropey?” Patrick felt a sudden duty to ask.

Both kids shuffled their feet. “No-o, but he probably _would_ be if no-one was watching, if you know what I mean?”

“Oh come on! He’s a priest! Has he done anything he shouldn’t? Obviously if he has, then we need to report it, but no rumour-spreading if he hasn’t, OK?”

“Oh-kay.” Kelly sing-songed. She’d probably roll her eyes as soon as he turned his back.  
Patrick couldn't believe it when he said "Bye, Danny. See you next week," later that evening, and Danny grunted but _didn't_ tell him to fuck off. He got the bus home – OK, he had hundreds of pounds in his footwear, but that wasn't a crime. It occurred to him for the first time that the amount of cocaine in his bedroom _was,_ and he laughed. He fed Jessica, still chuckling away. A wad of cash -he wouldn’t tell Peter yet – how much would he share anyway? He’d done the work of finding Simon, Peter could have say three hundred, a quarter? He was brought back down to earth by Jessica nipping his finger before dropping guano on his foot.  
  
Friday was always a short day of tough lessons – he'd wondered, before, what the Reformation would sound like from the Protestant perspective, and now that's what he was getting. Well, he supposed Mr Evans was being fairly impartial, but of course all the Catholic side he'd heard before. He wondered about his ancestors. _Was_ Gilly Merrick burned at the stake for his faith, or for being 'a massive pain in the arse and a political bloody liability', as Evans had put it? The goggle-eyed ginger nit was always one for a memorable phrase that couldn’t be used in essays... The pile of reading for his essay loomed, and he went to start it in the café.  
"Your tea." Eyan was bringing it over as soon as Patrick came in. He didn't have the heart to tell Eyan he preferred coffee, but was drinking tea because everyone else did and took it as read. He had to admit that the 10p price difference would stack up over the year, and chuckled inwardly, knowing he could probably pay for the whole gang to visit daily throughout sixth form, now. Though while he didn't know what he was going to use the money for, beyond caring for Jessica, he _wasn't_ going to fritter it away on coffee and drinks.  
  
"Wotcha doing for Christmas, Patrick?" Sandra quizzed him, and he looked up to realise she, Kathy and Erin were all laughing down at him, engrossed in his pile of purple photocopies.  
"Huh? Oh, Christmas. No idea. Probably back in Dorset, Dad'll be dragged round all the local do's, Ma and I take it in turns to go with..."  
"But you'll be back for New Year, right? Lots of folk out visiting family for Christmas, but then back for New Year. There's always a party – we'll go to Berlin's and back to Kathy's after. It’s a grand do!" Sandra clearly deemed him assimilated into the group, he realised, touched.  
He weighed up this plan against the usual plan of flowing booze at the Marlows', probably with Ginty and Giles _both_ back in the country, and look how _last_ New Year with Giles in the vicinity had turned out! He had money for the train or coach back to London, after all. He pursed his lips to show active consideration of the plan.  
Erin piped up, "You'll make it, then?"  
Well in _that_ case... "Of course." He smiled. Erin smiled back.  
  
  
The next Monday, there was even the tiniest nod back from Danny. By Thursday, Patrick felt he'd acquired a huge, lumbering puppy, hanging off his every word, silently sitting near him while they ate. At least this one was house-trained. He hoped.  
  
  
  
  
  
It came to the last week in November. He suddenly doubted whether Simon would be at the café for their appointment, but obligingly packed an envelope with the second ball of clingfilm, and got up early to clean out Jessica before an hour's work with the hawks up at the rescue centre. He'd learnt not to do it the other way round; Jessica was a jealous bird and resented smelling others on him. Presumably the ones in the centre were more used to company, sharing their humans. Back to Spaniards Way and, _luck_ , a bus trundled up to meet him. He forgot his previous fear of drug-running on public transport and relaxed, knowing that in fifteen minutes, he'd be at the Parade Café.  
  
The windows were misted up, so he couldn't see inside before opening the door, confidently expecting the place to contain only workmen and a couple of the Luke's sports teams at that time in the morning. Indeed, two tables of builders were seated, munching through their fry-ups, but then he saw Simon nursing a mug of tea in the opposite corner.  
  
Simon looked up, lowered his mug. "What sort of anti-social hour do you call this?" His voice sounded as bleary as he looked, but the remark was clearly an attempt at levity.  
"Not my fault if you turn up twenty minutes early."  
"It will still _be_ an anti-social hour in twenty minutes." Simon added another sugar to his tea and silently drank; Patrick waved to Sem and nodded, yes, another tea.  
  
"So, let's get the formalities over."  
Patrick obediently reached into his coat's inside pocket, put the brown envelope into Simon's coat; Simon passed an envelope back as the foam-covered mug was delivered, to Patrick's surprise – he'd been expecting more subtlety on Simon's part, true, but it astonished him to have his offering taken on trust.  
“You not testing it?"  
"Do I need to, _really_?" The drawl was as refined as any from a contemptuous prefect. Etonian, almost, but not. "You had six, this is number two; I predict it will be the same as the previous. I'm not wasting effort on it. Besides, I know where you live."  
Patrick didn't doubt it, that somehow Simon knew that, but the missing data came to him as he stowed his cash away in his socks. On return to the table, a steaming mug now at his place, Patrick remarked off-handedly as he could: "Harrow or Winchester?"  
  
And hah, _there_ was a reaction, as Simon landed his mug heavily. "What d'you mean?" he tried disingenuously.  
" _You_ know. Which one calls its alumni the Old Guard, again?"  
Simon gazed at the misted-up window, a mammoth figure filling the plastic seat, and took another swill of tea. Then he spoke, calmly. "Harrow. Well played. And _you_ – Ampleforth or the other one?"  
"The other one."  
"Right." Another of Simon's sleepy pauses. "So how fucked up did it make _you_?"  
"Very."  
"Enough to get yourself kicked out?"  
"Yes, actually."  
Simon nodded, as if wholly unsurprised, then roused himself. "I'm assuming you'll be away for Christmas, so how about see you in three weeks, the 19th?"  
"Sure. The Thursday. Same time, same place?"  
"I suppose so. Not much else to get up for." And with that laconic remark, Simon heaved himself up and out of the cafe, pushing through the tide of kids streaming towards Luke’s like a grizzly bear, intent on returning to his den. Patrick took advantage of the lack of distraction to catch up on making notes for History, oddly relaxed.  
  
Back home, his mother was on the kitchen extension as he walked in and tried to calm down Bucket. His mother put her hand over the receiver. “It's Mme Dubois. You know, Claudie’s mother. Come speak to her, it'll be good to practise your French.”  
Patrick couldn't think of anything worse – enforced conversation with a stranger, no preparation time or even a hint at a subject, _and_ in French?  
At least Mme Dubois took the initiative. After his stumbling pleasantries, she enquired after his health and his education. What was he studying now? French, for A-level? Excellent, so glad. At last she asked to be transferred back to Mrs Merrick, and Patrick retreated, gratefully. He made himself a mug of tea, and went to signal his mother, silently, if she would appreciate one too.  
  
"Really? That bad? Oh no! ' _Accent qui chante_?' I quite agree, something will have to be done about that. Oh Marie, that would be so kind. An amazing offer. Really? I'm sure he'd love to come, that's wonderful. And then he'd be back for start of term and Twelfth Night at ours – _oui, le Nuit des Rois_. Really, that's perfect – obviously there _are_ limitations to what his school can offer, so I'm so glad we can support him, that's _so_ good. And how's Claudie? Oh, studying, lovely. Yes, I'll let you know about dates. Mmm. Yes. Mmm. Mmm. Goodbye!”  
  
Tea forgotten, he asked, "What was that all about?"  
"Oh, _Patrick_! A wonderful opportunity. Mme Dubois has invited you to stay with them in Paris, from after Christmas to New Year. They always have a gathering for New Year, Claudie would love to see you I'm sure. And really, it's crucial to stave off that quite horrible French accent you're picking up. Marie said your fluency was good, but the accent made you sound like a yokel even the Marseillais would laugh at!"  
Patrick was unmoved by the criticism of the accent, though he _had_ hoped he could switch off the _peng_ for _pain_ worst of it and sound more Parisian; clearly not. But he’d prayed never to have to encounter Claudie in the flesh again, let alone on her home turf.  
"That's very kind of her, Ma, but surely I can't go so soon? There's hardly any time! We've got Christmas, and then I'm back at school before Twelfth Night. Wouldn't it be much better to go for an exchange programme or something at Easter or over the summer, spend a couple weeks in France?” He grasped for better ideas. “Work over the summer, perhaps? There's, what's it called, the Alliance Française? In Kensington. They do courses and find placements for students. Wouldn't that make much more sense?"  
  
"Well yes, those are good ideas too, to supplement your school. But right now we want to prevent that accent from becoming embedded, so we'll grab this opportunity while we can – it’s very kind of Marie. A ticket to Paris after Christmas and then back on the second, no other expenses beyond pocket-money, _no_ , Patrick, it would be both rude and foolish to refuse!"  
  
It was years later that Patrick finally wondered what his parents had done that New Year's Eve without him, and decided he didn't want to know.  
  
The next two weeks proceeded without incident, other than Patrick realising that Mr Stubbs’ monotone belied a dry sense of humour, if you could concentrate on the words rather than the drone. _Candide_ was still a prat, though, and French had _way_ too many bloody tenses and moods when writing formally, as M Mouchot demanded.  
"Pat? It's your friend Simon, from school!"  
Alarmed, Patrick ran to the telephone. "What's up?", he queried, as calmly as he could.  
"Ah, nothing to worry about. Not stalking you; the number’s in the book. Just wondering if we could meet for our usual, this Thursday? Twelfth? Most kind. See you, then."  
“Who was that, Pat? He sounded like a nice boy.”  
“Oh, Simon? Yeah, just asking for help with homework. Chaucer's a bit fiendish, I suppose.”  
‘Help with homework’, the permanent excuse for being with anyone, anywhere. He'd had Erin and Kathy over one afternoon – bit of telly, tea and toast, _most_ civilised – and his mother had been most concerned – mixed-sex group of teenagers, if not actively engaging in inappropriate activities, assume idle chatter and time-wasting at best – until they'd all taken great pains to explain the finer points of the Knights Tale to her.  
“Could have been worse. Could have been the Miller's Tale,” said Erin, winking at Patrick. He'd read that one, of course, and spluttered. 

Kathy clearly had too: "I always wondered how they did it on stage..."  
"Cloaks," Patrick replied firmly. “And angles, facing away from the audience. You'd probably need a narrator to get across what's actually happening. Always sounded a bit physically dubious, to me.

“Want to test it?” Patrick was paralysed by his inability to answer, and Erin laughed, but with him, not at him.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally stitched this chapter together. If people comment to prove they're reading, I'll give you the next chapter for Christmas. Feels a bit cheating to be publishing chapters without having finished the entire draft, but if it was good enough for Dickens...
> 
> On the subject of Dickens, do people agree with Crommie's dictum that "Dickens-haters invariably enjoy Thackeray"? It did get me to reading half of Vanity Fair, which admittedly I was quite enjoying, just found the book too heavy. I should try again with my Kindle!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas - part 1 of 2

The last fortnight of term went horribly quickly, to a backdrop of Advent hymns and Christmas carols in school, and "Do they know it's Christmas?" on repeat outside. He'd liked the song the first hundred or so times, uncool as it might be to say so, but he would rather appreciate a change of tune.

There was a carol service, but he didn't go. Too much emotion, from those first pure tones of _Once in Royal,_ all the way via lessons mumbled by the prefects, to the cacophony of the ill-trained _Adeste_. He did, however, attend the community centre Christmas party. Michael and Kelly would have nagged him to death if he hadn’t.

“Paddy! Has you seen our video? It's brilliant!”

He smiled down at Kelly, full of her usual ebullience. "Yes, I did! Well done."

He sat down on a plastic chair to watch the kids' show. Tatty decorations covered the place – lurid tinsel everywhere the kids could tie it or wedge it in place, lacking such luxuries as Blu-Tack. Michael and Kelly were rightly proud of their short film, which played in the front room on repeat. It had had some editing from Father Mike, cutting out the wobbly bits, but did a good job of showcasing various activities to a backdrop of Michael’s inimitable patter. Quite professional commentary, in fact. The show proved better than he had feared. A few younger kids sang pop songs with their own dance routines, almost tunefully. Some of the older teens had organised a dance and gymnastic display, with breakdancing Michael Jackson would be proud of, and acrobatic feats Patrick hadn’t known were possible. One kid managed to leap, from a standing start, to do a somersault in the air and land on his feet. Others managed to copy him, with a run-up they pretended was a dance. The audience, assorted parents, teachers, more kids, and others, applauded.

 

Half-way through that set, he realised that Kelly had disappeared from her seat beside him. Near the end, he heard some altercation, and turned, heart sinking, hoping someone else could sort it out. A hatless policeman was trying to get a very drunk woman to sit down and be quiet, or failing that, at least take one of those options. Kelly was standing at her side, beaming. "This is my mum! Mum, you made it!"

"Aw right, copper? I came along for my girl, you didn't need of waked me up, you's no right..."

"Shush, Mum. Look what they're doing."

"Ooh, I say!"

And indeed, Dwayne's back-flips were impressive. Patrick didn't really speak to the teenagers, even if they were younger than he. In truth, he found them terrifying, the more so once he’d heard about the records some of them had for GBH and the like, whilst the cheeky smaller kids _weren't_ scary to him any more. Just exhausting.

The young policeman sat down on the aisle, next to Patrick, where Kelly had been earlier. "Ah, a nice sit down! Don't get many of these at work, I tell you, mate."

"Do you know Kelly and her mum, then?"

"Do I heck. Frankie – that's mum – she's harmless enough, but she gets in a flap, drinks, and our team get to move her on or try to defuse the situation at least twice a week. She doesn't half yak on...”

“Kelly does, too.”

  
“True enough, but she cares for her mum wonderfully, and brings herself up. Amazing kid. We do what we can - Kel drops by the station most days in the holidays to cadge food, which obviously is better than if she didn't. About half the time she needs it, and I bet you, half the time she _doesn't_ come by is because she's nicked some cash. Watch your pockets round her – don't get me wrong, she's a great kid, so much potential, but it's a hard life.”

  
“Her mum not able to look after her, then?”

  
“Really, no. Well. About ten percent of the time, I suppose. She's taught Kelly to cook. Tells her to go to school and do her homework. She _means_ well. She spends all her money on Kel when she's sober... Then gets all upset because there isn't any left after she’s been spaffing it on booze, and then starts again as soon as any dosh comes in. Vicious circle, I guess. _When_ she's sober, she's lovely. Honest.”

  
Patrick found it hard to square this with the female reek of booze falling off her chair, but whatever. “You feed Kelly? Like, in the holidays?” It occured to him that the after-school service, natch, wouldn't run during school holidays.

  
“Well, ad hoc, like. The lads chip in, and the ladies in the admin team do what they can. But there's a play scheme for kids, special invitation only, like, in the holidays. Just _happens_ to include packed lunch and cooking a bit of dinner, you get me?”

  
Patrick nodded, slowly. "But, call me naive.. Aren't there social services for that kind of thing?"  
The officer snorted. "We're police. We _are_ social services... Seriously, social services are overwhelmed, but more to the point, all the kids and their families hate them – they're all terrified the kids are going to be taken into care. Thing is, that rarely happens – overwhelmed, like I said, but mostly, it's not even considered, ‘cept in _the_ most extreme cases. Sounds backwards, right, but while foster care can provide material safety and the foster parents are usually caring and all, the kids end up _more_ likely to detach from everyone, get depressed and go mental, medicate with drink and drugs and all, than if you just leave them be with a bit of a helping hand. Bonkers, I know, but I've seen it happen enough times that I'm willing to give the other a go. So, we turn blind eyes where we can to Frankie, don't do her for drunk and disorderly if we can help it and not just to avoid the paperwork, slip Kelly a quid for the electric sometimes, and hope to god she doesn't keep nicking stuff now she's the age of responsibility... Gave her a right earful a while back, not sure if it sunk in at all.”

Patrick nodded again, trying to look intelligent. He knew that lots of the kids who used the centre just wanted a bit of company rather than going to an empty house. And it was _free_ , unlike the cafe. And next door, unlike the library, or the sort of shops that they might be willing to hang around in. Some simply wanted a place to be that lacked parents – he'd heard more than one young teen complain their mum or dad was doing their head in, usually by forbidding them to do something that seemed eminently reasonable of the parent, if you weren't fourteen. Certainly it became more popular as the weather worsened and hanging out in a park was no longer a desirable option. But it was the ones who were there every shift he had, that he noticed and remembered.

  
Kelly, Danny, Michael. Though Michael seemed to have a perfectly good family, with a mum and a father-figure – he was learning not to assume, dad – and a squad of siblings, who had all come to watch the show and admire his video appearances. "Bless my soul," his neatly-ironed mother had said repeatedly. Michael was grinning even more than usual – this time, with pride.

Most of the kids were first and second years. Presumably the older ones were entrusted to go home, collect younger siblings from primary, or just found Luke's church hall terminally uncool. He had to own that if he liked a place, it probably _was_ dead in the coolness stakes. There were less than a dozen fourth and fifth years, who all attended regularly; large jostling lads who frankly scared him, with their talk of gangs and tooling up, and some quiet girls who did their homework.

 

Though his assessment of age wasn't always right – two girls he'd thought were around sixteen had turned out to be neighbours, the elder indeed sixteen, a very attractive dark leggy lass, though in her streetwise way she'd made it very clear he was nowhere near her radar, whiteness and poshness being only the start of it... Her friend, though, an Amazon with breasts a Page 3 editor would kill for, turned out to be only _twelve_. No wonder Sal was so protective – he couldn't _imagine_ the amount of attention Gabby got, and to deal with at that age. One evening, Sal had heard some of the lads cat-calling her and thumped one from behind, without a care that his mates would dive in.

 

He didn't like to think of what might have happened if Father Mike and Father Derek hadn't jumped on top of them. It turned out both priests had excellent fighting skills. Of course, _military_. That's why Father Derek seemed so familiar – he was practically Commander Marlow in a cassock... Father Mike, square-shouldered, had probably come from the squaddie end of things before finding his vocation, which in turn explained a lot about his and Derek’s interaction, officer-to-grunt, not just senior clergy to junior,

The show finished, to rapturous applause. A couple extra back-flips for an encore, and Kathy passed him some mulled 'wine'.

  
“Its non-alcoholic, just as well seeing as Kelly’s mum's snuck three glasses, but pretty tasty,” she told him.

"And warm. Thanks. " Mince pies were also floating around, with a nasty greasy aftertaste, _not_ Kwiksave’s best effort, so he stuck to the mulled wine. It really was just as well it wasn't alcoholic.

“Patrick! This is my mum! He made the film with us, helped us hold the camera and everything. He's OK.” The explanations were asides to her mother, as Kelly punched him exuberantly on the arm.

Her mother was standing straight, now, and if he hadn't known, he'd have missed the slight slur in her speech.

"Oh, what a pleasure to meet you! My Kelly's been talking about you and everyone else here. She says you look after her well, which is so good, cos..." She suddenly looked downcast and they could both tell she was thinking, 'because I can’t'. Anxious to head off that line of thought, Patrick burst out hurriedly,

  
"It’s grand to meet you too. Kelly is a pleasure to have around here, she's a real credit to you, you must be so proud. She and the other kids planned that whole film themselves, you know."

“Proud? That I am, that I am. She's a fine girl, my Kelly.”

“Come on, Mum. Let's stop by Tesco on the way home.” And Patrick saw she'd liberated her mother's purse from her coat pocket and was waving it proudly, while her mother beamed at him, exchanging pleasantries all round, as charming-to-strangers as his own mother. They went, arm in arm, like a model mother and daughter you'd see on telly, any wobble on her mother’s part invisible if you weren’t actually looking.

The music was cheesy and on a scratchy tape, the decorations tacky as hell, but as an end-of-term party went, it wasn't actually unpleasant. Kathy and Sandra were going great guns on the dance floor, and Samir was showing off his rythym. Showing off to Kathy, maybe? Gabby tried to drag Patrick onto the dance area and he obliged her, it being easier than to argue, and he figured he wouldn’t exactly _suffer_. He felt he _belonged_ , odd as that was, particularly when one of the hard lads nodded at him as they coincided in a doorway.

  
“See ya, Paddy,” Michael yelled in passing as he ran out after his family.

“Merry Christmas, Danny,” Patrick said, seeing the boy on his way out, shoulders set against the incipient cold.

  
"Yeah. Whatever." Danny stumped out.

They broke up on the 18th – earlier than usual, Samir said. Patrick realised that his previous schools might have had longer days, but fewer of them. Just over two weeks, rather than four, for hols was one place where private schooling scored. On the other hand, he liked his leisurely afternoons...  
That evening they met up at Kathy's for dinner, before a group trip to Berlin. Patrick took wine – _ooh, you spoil us_ , Sandra had said before necking half a bottle – and sat down next to Erin who had saved him a spot on the sofa. _Settee_ , in this house. He felt her warmth against him, smiling at him, and realised that Simon might not have been talking rubbish after all. He grinned back at her. A wobble of the cushions when Sandra heaved herself up, and he could have simply leaned forward and kissed her. He didn't, but she noticed the hesitation, and touched his hand. Hastily moving his plate so the others couldn't see, he reached back and gave her hand a small squeeze. She reciprocated. Both slightly shocked, but pleasantly so, they held hands for a few minutes before they were chivvied to get on with their eating and to head off clubbing.  
It shouldn't amaze him any more, but the transition from Erin the demure schoolgirl with that neat French plait, to this hairsprayed temptress, always impressed him. He'd rapidly realised that her quiet school exterior hid a mind full of humour, and she was always the first to notice the dirty jokes in their literature. Patrick, to be fair, usually cottoned on at that point, leaving Ms Masefield or Stubby to explain to the others. Stubby was a bit similar; it wasn't that he was really boring, he’d finally learned, just that he said _everything_ in a dry monotone voice. Once you’d got used to it and tuned in, the man's double entendres were _filthy._  
Erin, meanwhile, was promising the world with a tiny raise of an eyebrow. Patrick grinned back.  
  
They were holding hands by the time they got to Berlin, and the usual bouncer waved them all through. Patrick rather liked Berlin, run-down and seedy as it was, because no-one there took it or themselves too seriously. Yes, Samir liked owning the dance floor, and Kathy and Sandra got into strutting their funky stuff, but no-one cared when Andrew or, even, sometimes, Patrick got into the spirit of things and danced too, Andrew all spidery arms and legs, Patrick mostly sticking to an inoffensive motion on the spot. One time he'd got more ambitious – Diamond White had a _lot_ to answer for – and he’d got a wolf-whistle from Alkie Ellen, one of a gang of women in their 40s or so who appeared to live in Berlin because they’d been barred from all the other local drinking holes, who had raised an arm in salute and called out, "you go, boy!" Presumably she hadn’t been sarcastic or taking the piss; Sandra had also cheered him on and clapped him on the back with a “good on ya!” But mostly, he was happy to lounge in the huge, comfortable sofas – he'd hate to see what their fabric looked like in the light, it was a good night when he couldn’t feel stickiness – and he could nurse a drink, chat a bit to Erin and the others, and watch the world go by.  
  
Erin came to the bar with him, _half a cider, one Newky Brown_ , and she gave him a peck on the cheek in thanks. He wanted to turn towards her mouth, make that kiss into more, but with half the school watching... _No_.  
"See you at New Year's, then?" she asked.  
It was a routine confirmation; the plan for the 31 st had been in place for a couple weeks.  
_Shit._ "I'd love to, but..." Erin's face fell. "I'm so sorry... my parents are shipping me to Paris for a week, after Christmas. Staying with family friends." Erin started to pull away. "I really didn't want to! Ma was adamant though, apparently the French accent I'm picking up from Mouchie is laughable..." And _there,_ disdain for the posh boy subject to the whims of his mum. "I'll be back on the evening of the third, for school the next day. Maybe we could do something on that weekend, the sixth.. Oh, _damn_ and dash it!"  
She crooked an eyebrow at him.  
"Twelfth Night – my folks host this huge do back home – Dorset – and I'll be expected to be there, three-line whip and all that. Oh _botheration_. What are you doing tomorrow?”  
“Dragged up north to the grandparents.” She seemed mildly mollified, not being the only one at beck and call of family, but Patrick's hopes for a goodnight kiss were in vain.

 

It wasn’t much of a silver lining that he'd drunk less than usual, so getting up to meet Simon wasn't too much of a hardship. Simon was there when he entered, and glared at him.  
“You've got me up this bloody early on a day you don't even have school to go to?”  
“That's what I was going to say to you! Don't you have work, or something to do? Why didn't you say?”  
“Me, communicate? You'll be asking me to have emotions next,” Simon replied sarcastically. “Right, then, full English, no beans, extra bacon for me please. You? I'm buying.”  
Given the command, Patrick stumbled through an order for the same, no mushroom, OK, yes, extra bacon. He sipped his tea and they passed their transaction off seamlessly. "Half-way there," Patrick realised on his return from the toilet, and the feeling of relief would hit him even decades in the future, every time he heard a chorus with that line, never able to explain to anyone why. Back at the table, food still frying under Sem's careful watch, he felt the pressure of silence.  
  
Simon broke it, ever happy to make conversation. "So, got plans for the holidays, then?"  
He gave the same bland answer he'd provided to the barber the day before. "Back to Dorset for Christmas, then being sent to family friends in Paris to practice French over New Year, then back to school."  
“Oh.” Simon nodded, made no move to share his own plans. "The sending to France, that doesn't sound like your choice?"  
"It wasn't."  
"Missing New Year in London, too."  
  
The food arrived, and Patrick stabbed the sausage vigorously. "That's right."  
“Ah.” Simon tucked in to his mushrooms and egg, bit a corner off buttered toast. He chewed, swallowed, then said, "You don't sound altogether happy about going to Paris, mate."  
Fortified by some egg and bacon, Patrick had a forkful of beans and sat back. "I'm really not." Simon was only going to ask why, so he might as well start explaining. Well, the part Simon might understand. "I'd just about got together with Erin – you know, the one who looks like your sister – and we'd already agreed to go to Berlin and a party at Kathy's that night. New Year. A big do, by all accounts. But now I've got to be in France..."  
  
“Ah. Give her a day to get her head round it. She's a reasonable girl, she'll understand.”  
"She _might_ have understood, she's going to her folks until after Christmas, after all, but then I had to confess I was being dragged away the next weekend too! Went down like a lead balloon, _that_ did.”  
“What's the next event?”  
“Big party at my parents. Twelfth Night. Annual thing, they get everyone in from all round, huge catered do, formal dancing, drinks flowing all night... And I have to act all sociable as befits the son and heir... “  
  
“You mentioned this to her?”  
“Erin? Mentioned it was the folk's do, all stiff and formal, didn't go into detail.”  
“So from her point of view, there's this huge event you’ll be at, an extravaganza, the world and its dog is invited, but she isn't?”  
“What? No, really, it's _terrible_... I hate it...”

Simon sat in silence, Socrates expecting his pupil to reason to the correct conclusion. Eventually, Patrick came to Erin’s point of view.

“Oh, _no_! How do I explain?”  
“You don't. You invite her.” Simon ate the last chunk of sausage, as if for emphasis.  
“But... I can't...”  
“Sure you can. Your parents have already invited dozens, what’s one more? Or a couple more, I suppose her parents will prefer if a few of you are going.”  
“They'll have to stay overnight...”  
“Got space, haven't you? A bedroom, I mean? Even if not, you could all bunk down in your room. Trust me, anyone would prefer to slum it with their mates after a cringe-making do, rather than feel left out.”  
“I wouldn't.”  
“Really? That's kinda sad, if you haven't had close enough friends to care about.” Usually adults assumed Patrick's detachment was a sign of maturity – Patrick, like most people, assumed Simon was between twenty-five and thirty, and Simon wasn't going to confess otherwise. “Call her, before she's dragged off for Christmas. This morning. Lesson from Uncle Simon. I’m off, so merry bloody Christmas to you.” Simon muttered more as he extracted himself from the booth. Patrick guessed, correctly, it was along the lines of “just call me Marje bloody Proops...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JackMerlin, and for the anonymous guest readers.
> 
> Dedicated to Kelly, Michael, Danny and Inspector A.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas - part 2 of 2

He got home. Both parents were out. Pulse racing, he dialled Erin's number.  
“Hello, may I speak to Erin, please? It's Patrick Merrick, from school. Thank you.”  


The harried maternal voice called Erin to come downstairs. Clearly there was some reluctance on Erin's part to move. A hand placed half over the receiver muffled the next, _no, I'm not lying, now come speak to him yourself._ Patrick could hear in his head the likely huffing noises from upstairs. He steeled himself to listen to whatever Erin had to say.  
"Hello."  
Oh. Not much to listen to.  
"Hi. Er... it's Patrick."  
"Mum said."  
"Look, um, I'm so sorry I can't do new year, I _tried_ to put off the French trip but my ma just wasn't having it, so, was thinking, right, um, the, the, the, the do at my place the next weekend, would you be willing to come? You'd have to stay over, there's spare bedrooms..." A noise. She hadn't hung up yet… He continued, less hesitantly, "The dinner and dancing is good if you like that sort of thing. You've done Irish dancing and stuff, right?"  
"You weren't selling it earlier, last time you told me about it."  
"Well, yeah... Thing is, for me it's a family thing, local families come over, hardly anyone my age – except the Marlow family next door, which is basically _all_ the embarrassing bits of adolescence personified... So for me, by myself, it's terrible. Dozens of elderly all chucking me under the chin and going ‘haven’t you grown?’… _With_ someone, it might be quite fun. The food's good, at least." As the words came out, he realised that with a friend – girlfriend? - it _could_ perhaps be enjoyable. “So, would you? _Huge_ favour to me?"  
  
"I'd have to ask my mum. She'll want to grill you about sleeping arrangements... OK. I'll put her on. " As the line clicked, he heard her hissing, “the one whose dad's an MP. Has this manor house in Dorset... _I_ don't know where, ask _him_!"  
"Hello!” Erin's mother was now putting on her best telephone voice, to his amusement. "Could you tell me where your parents’ house is, please? Oh, near Westbridge, yes. I see. And the address and phone number? Thank you. Well, I'm sure we could spare Erin for the weekend if there's a group of you going. There _is_ , isn't there?" Patrick didn't need A-level subtext detection to understand that if there _wasn't_ a group, Erin wasn't going.  
"Yes, of course. Four or five of us."  
" Very well, then. Let me know the names of the others when term starts." No flies upon _her_. “I'll hand you back to Erin.”  
"Hi." Her voice was back to friendly, with a slight giggle.  
"Right. I'd better invite a couple of couple more of us then. Make an occasion out of it. You think Kathy and Samir would be up for it? Andrew, maybe?" He realised, uncomfortably, that he didn't want Sandra there – she’d sniped at his house in Hampstead enough; she'd never stop taking the piss if she actually saw Mariot Chase...  
"I should think so. How about I call Kathy and you call the boys? Oh, no, can't call yet and I'll be off in the evening..."  
Patrick agreed, that waiting until 6pm was required. "I might wander over to Kathy's. How about you call me, day before school starts, Saturday fifth, that's when we're going down. Just to confirm, obviously it's all fine. Oh, thank you!"  
"I'm looking forward to it."  
"Me, too.”  
With huge relief, he hung up, shaking. Only five minutes, shouldn't show up too badly on the phone bill. He decided to go over to Kathy's – someone was always in, there.  
  
Her little sister let him in."Oi, Kaff!"  
“Oh, hiya. Wasn't expecting you. Have a cuppa. What can I do for you? You aren't fretting about holiday homework already, are you?”  
He assured her, he wasn't. Fortified with a mug of strong sweet tea, he explained how he'd be away for New Year, felt he'd let down Erin, figured she might like his folks' ghastly bash, it might even be enjoyable with her, and now she could come seeing as there's a group going.  
"Not just her and One Young Man, going away for the weekend. _Gotcha_. Glad you two finally got it together, took you long enough! Meanwhile, sure, Mum should agree, you being a pillar of respectability and all that. You’ve got a spare room for me and Erin, right?”  
“At least one spare room, sure. Might even have an intact window and non-leaking ceiling, if you're lucky.”  
“Seriously?”  
"Mostly. There's a few rooms near mine that aren't used much. I suppose the proper upper-class solution would be to give all visitors an extra dog to use to keep warm, but we've only got the one...”  
“Hark at _you_ , not upper-class!”  
Patrick grimaced. “True, though. Upper middle, sure, but nairy a title nor even a Lordship anywhere in the family...”  
“ _Diddums._ Not good enough for the Queen to hang out with...”  
“Oh, the Royal Family are _dreadfully_ nouveau, if one cares about that sort of thing. The traditional country set can't stand them any more than us rural recusant yeoman types... So I'm told. No, never met any of them, but people _say_. Meanwhile, back to the Twelfth Night bash. You in?”  
“Only if someone else comes too, so I'm not playing gooseberry all weekend. Or chaperone. Not sure which is worse... Can you call Samir and see if you can persuade his folks of your credentials and pure respectability? That means _not_ mentioning me...”  
“They don't know?”  
“Don't know what?”  
“You and Samir...”  
“There _is_ no me and Samir.”  
Patrick stared at her, and he won; she lowered her gaze first.  
"OK, for the purposes of his family, there is no _me_ , and _definitely_ no me-and-Samir. Which means no official me-and-him to _anyone_ , including anyone at school, my little brother or sister, anyone."  
“ _Sheesh._ ”  
“Yeah, it is a bit. His sisters know, and his brother probably’s sussed. Brother's bit of a traditionalist, doesn't really approve of anyone outside the community getting involved, but doesn't _mind_ , exactly – in principle. His dad, though, if he found out, then disowning would be the best option...”  
“Ouch.”  
“Yup. So, roll on uni and financial independence! In the meantime, go on about your dad being the MP there, community event, demonstrate you're the epitome of respectability, Establishment, blah blah.”  
“ _Not_ the unlimited booze nor excess of women. Got it.”  
“Use our phone.” Kathy pointed into the hall.  
“Really? Your mum won't kill you at this time of day?”  
“I think Gran can stand a local call before six. You won't be chatting long. They won't answer in English, by the way, but his parents understand it and speak it fine.”  
Nodding, Patrick took the proffered receiver, while Kathy dialled.  
  
A man's voice, a foreign greeting. "Oh, good morning." He put on his best Received Pronunciation voice. "May I speak to Samir, please. It’s Patrick Merrick, from school."  
"Yes. You may. Hold the line, please." Formal, educated English in a clipped strong accent, followed by some calling out in a foreign language with the word ‘Patrick’ in it. Pause.  
"Oi. What's up?" Samir sounded out of breath.  
  
"Whatcha doing, Saturday fifth January? That whole weekend, actually. My parents put on a Twelfth Night party every year..." He explained to Samir.  
"I'll see, but suspect I'll have to work half of it at least. Thanks for asking, though. I'll see if I can persuade Dad to see if I can swap shifts.  
It was always interesting hearing arguments when you couldn't understand a word, guessing who was winning from the rise and fall of the voices. Samir was pleading, his father firm. It didn't sound promising. Then a more assertive tone from Samir, _good_ , but then a one, two, three strong statements from his dad. It sounded final.  
Patrick wasn't surprised when Samir picked up the phone again and told him, "It's a no go, I'm afraid. A day out might have been OK, but he's not having me overnight somewhere he's never heard of with people he's never met. Ah, he's gone. Yeah, too much risk of boozing and women... You're at Kathy's? Can you put her on? Cheers, mate."  
  
Patrick passed the receiver over. The expressions on Kathy's face were ones he'd never seen on her before. He realised guiltily that he had seen similar, not from Ginty, but from Nicola, up to around the time they'd started Gondalling. _Bugger_.  
He really was not looking forward to this Epiphany, when apparently the entire suite of Marlows would be there in force, Commander Marlow and Giles included. The whole of his awkward adolescence and inflicting it on other people was summed up in Nicola. And Ginty. He _liked_ to  think he'd improved. Took himself and life less seriously, after his year at Broomhill, for certain. He surely couldn't cock up a relationship with Erin more than he had with the Marlows, and then grimaced as he realised how nearly he'd screwed _that_ up before it had even started.  
  
Kathy hung up, grinning.  
"You look happy. How come? He said he couldn't make it."  
"No, but he's off tonight and will be out with his sister."  
"And?  
“Well, he and his sister don't do _nearly_ as much socialising together as his parents think they do... Though in this case we might all go down the cinema together. Samir suggested Ghostbusters again.” She tapped out the theme tune on the arm of the sofa. “Call Andrew.”  
  
“Huh?”  
“For your shindig. You need more than me to convince Erin's folks, right? So, Andrew. Him or Sandra, so, _really_?”  
Patrick had been feeling bad about not wanting Sandra there. The digs about his class versus hers would be too much, and much as he rather liked her general seize-the-moment enthusiasm, she just wouldn't fit in at all, her speech so much on the servants' side of the status divide… It was too easy to see the Master of the Hunt or his father’s Conservative Club colleagues being condescending towards her, and it would just be nasty to subject her to _that_ , surely? Erin and Andrew were nice respectable middle-class types, their voices and mannerisms wouldn't stand out. Kathy could speak well when she chose, and more importantly _would_ ; she’d put everyone around her at ease no matter what. Sandra would glower with resentment like a large teenage Fob, sucking all bonhomie away...  
"She'll be working all that weekend anyhow; after-Christmas sales are always mayhem," Kathy commented, and Patrick nodded, guiltily grateful for the excuse.  
  
"Is that Andrew? Hi, mate. No, fine. OK, there's this do at my folks... Samir can't make it... No, you don't have to be Kathy's boyfriend, best you don't, just come along! Enjoy the booze and food and I apologise for the company in advance... It's black tie though... Full kilt? Sure, that would be fine... Kathy's asking what you wear under, _ha-very-ha_... Wonderful."  
  
"Black tie?" Kathy queried once he’d put the phone down.  
"Yeah. So any sort of long dress, I guess, for you. Oh blow and dash it, I didn't tell Erin..."  
"I'll sort her, don't you fret. She may well have one, or Gran gave me a couple of her dresses a while back, might fit, or we'll go down Camden Market, find something. Don’t worry about it! More tea and watch a bit of telly?” She knew he was still fretting.  
With Laurel & Hardy in the background, Patrick started to relax, until he realised he would be presenting his parents with a _fait accompli_. The churning of his stomach wouldn't settle.  
"You OK? What's your new year going to be like, anyway – who are these people in Paris?" He'd forgotten that, as much as he wished he could forget Claudie completely.  
  
“Friends-of-the-family. Think they met Ma at uni, Pa too I guess. They come over every year or two, and their daughter – Claudie, she's about twenty-five now – she lived with us for a couple years, to master English.” _And the English..._ he thought grimly. “Anyway, _eminently_ respectable with the perfect Parisian accents to which we should be aspiring, live in the _sixième_... Not been to theirs before, so I suppose, you know, it’s Paris, how bad can it be? Six days of polite conversation, in exquisite French..."  
“Ouch. And New Year, too.”  
“Oh ye gods. Hadn't thought of that. Ma mentioned some formal dinner, and strangers, for even more polite conversation...”  
“Ah well, it'll all be educational. More reason to have your mates down the next weekend, right?”  
“Right.” He hoped desperately the plan wouldn’t backfire; Erin’s tolerance must have limits.  
  
They went down on the 23rd to Meriot Chase, Jessica squawking as she was caged and put into the back of the car. Midnight Mass was a fine rip-roaring sing-along, and he lay in the next morning. A Walkman, good, a few books, and some money 'for new clothes – thought you might enjoy shopping in Paris.' Patrick couldn't conceive of enjoying shopping anywhere, but as he appeared to have grown _again_ , it was a necessary evil. He could already hear Claudie laughing at his rather short sleeves and his ankles on show, and rummaged through all his clothes to ensure only the least embarrassing would be going with him to Paris. Two decent pairs of jeans, only formal trousers a bit skimpy, damn, he _would_ need to shop...  
  
His mother was impressed that he'd packed by himself in timely fashion. "I came to bring you spare toiletries, but looks like you've purchased yours already," she said in a rare tone of approval. "I'm afraid you will need to buy more clothes there, but the exchange rate is good. I would have suggested Claudie could help you, but she appears to be spending all her time with a young man called Philippe, apparently, so I don't know that you'll see much of her, I'm afraid.”  
  
Patrick tried to hide his relief.  
“I got the impression Mme Dubois didn't really approve of this Philippe. _Stringy hair_ , she said. Anyway, it will be a good break for you – you've been burning the candle at both ends, working hard on your essays as well as getting up early working at that bird place, and doing your community service. I hope you aren't staying up too late when you go round to do homework at your friends' houses?”  
With the most vague _mmm_ he could manage, Patrick confirmed he certainly wasn't working too late, given those were the nights they either went to Berlin or hung out at Kathy's. Even though he was working hard the rest of the time.  
It occurred to him that actually, his mother knew that too. She really wasn't daft. 

Speaking of lack of daftitude, he’d better ‘fess up now rather than later…

“Er, Ma...”

“Yes?” Helena tried to hide her fear – that he’d been doing drugs at these friends’ houses, that he’d got a girl pregnant, that he’d been doing no work and would be asked to leave a school yet again, no, _that_ at least was unlikely, he’d got a glowing report the week before… 

“Is it OK if I put a few friends in the other two bedrooms in my wing? I, er, invited them… there’s this girl...”

“Oh Patrick, _really?_ Of all the things you didn’t think to ask first? Well no, Ronnie’s going to be in the end room, even if the ceiling is ropey, and the yellow room’s prone to leaking, buckets need changing every couple hours in the rain, so it’s horribly damp, you _know_ that, what _were_ you thinking?”

Not going to confess what he was thinking, he said “They can kip in my room, then, I suppose. I can’t  _uninvite...”_ And his bowels clenched knowing his mother might very well say,  _yes, you can, will and must._

“Hallo! Set for tomorrow, Pat?”  
“Yes, he’s packed remarkably efficiently, and _equally_ efficiently invited a few friends for Twelfth Night, knowing there’s no way to get in touch and uninvite them at this juncture. Rather underhand, don’t you think?” 

_Ouch._ And giving him way more credit for planning than deserved… Not sure who that question was aimed at; let’s assume it was rhetorical, given his father was remaining silent.

“How many are we talking about, anyway?”

“Three – Erin, Kathy and Andrew. Seriously Ma, they won’t mind if we just move the bed away from the wet bit! Put the girls in there and Andrew can have a blow-up in my room, really, Ma, it’ll be just fine!”

His mother looked unconvinced, his father – almost approving?

“So who was the one you wanted, Pat? Kathy or this Erin?”

“Soz, Pa? I don’t follow?”

“Oh, come on! Give me some credit for at least having _had_ a youth! You wanted to invite a girl, because you weren’t going to see her at New Year’s Eve, but she – no, her family, more likely – said not on your nelly is our girl going to a house party with a lad of seventeen to stay overnight, so of _course_ you reassured them there was a group of you going and it was all eminently respectable. Which of course it will be, _won’t_ it, Patrick Merrick?”

The shock of finding out his father could think on exactly the same lines as he silenced him – perhaps, possibly, he might find himself more like his father as he grew up? Possibly even  _sociable_ ?

“Which one’s the girlfriend then, and why haven’t I met her before this? No, I met Kathy, didn’t I? Pleasant girl.”

He took a deep breath. “Not Kathy. Erin. Um… I hope. Um. She’s not exactly my girlfriend...well, she might be...we haven’t had a chance to discuss it yet...” And realised his parents were drawing much more scurrilous conclusions than were merited. “No! She’s been a friend! Now, I don’t know...”

“All right.” His mother’s calm cut through his jittering. “You help me move the furniture well away from the wet end. The bed’ll have to go in the corner, but that can’t be helped. The other one, what’s his name?”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew. He’ll have to bring a camp bed or something, I don’t think we have anything...”

“OK. He will, I’m sure. _Likes_ yomping across hills and camping and that.”

“Excellent. In that case, I’ll wish you both good night. Oh, Pat – is this Kathy going out with Andrew?” _Curious minds, just in case there’s any thoughts of room swapping._

“Oh no! Kathy’s … Andrew’s… No, _definitely_ not! Friends, that’s all.” He forced some laughter in his relief at not saying anything he shouldn’t. “It’ll be nice to have some people my own age to socialise with, especially as I’m missing New Year in London.” _Might as well put a slight dig in._

“OK. Good night, Pat.

“All right. Good night.” His mother followed his father out of the room.

“Good night.” He heard them enter the yellow room, the small double bed being pushed sideways and the chest of drawers scraping across the bare floorboards. Faintly, he could hear some of their words.

“...all young once, Helena.”

“Yes….relieved it’s a girl...”

Unsure whether to be amused or insulted,  and figuring he couldn’t really  _blame_ his mother for considering the point, Patrick went to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick goes to Paris, to visit the Dubois family for New Year.

Patrick walked nervously through the green channel, with sudden panic that he might have picked up some traces of illegal substance, or have had something planted upon him. He emerged, blinking, into the bright lights and bustle of Arrivals, and there was M Dubois, unexpectedly shorter than he, with neat grey hair, impeccable blue suit, cigarette, shiny loafers.  
“Avez-vous une bien journée?”  
Patrick managed to stumble through the pleasantries fairly well, mindful to avoid the worst traits of a southern-hick accent. A cab, and through dark streets into Central Paris. They pulled up outside a mansion block, where the main door led to a wide square staircase that surrounded an iron-barred lift. M Dubois opened the concertina'd lift door and shut it behind them. Up to the top floor – good, always best to be top, and into the Dubois' apartment. 

It might have only three bedrooms, but Patrick thought this might be the most opulent home he'd ever been in. It wasn't so much the furniture – a mix of antiques and stylish modern – but the thick curtains and deep-pile carpets both looked luxurious and ensured the central heating was effective. Mme Dubois greeted him; kiss, kiss, yes, a bath before bed _would_ be appreciated after a long day of travel, and the unlimited hot water was positive bliss, as he disappeared under mountains of foam.  
  
The next morning, M Dubois genially hosted breakfast, supplying endless _café au lait_ , eggs Benedict and fruit, to complement the fresh bread and pastries in a basket on the table. Patrick was advised that while some shops might be open on the 28th, it would be best to wait until the next day for clothes shopping, and thus he spent the day alone, sightseeing, breaking for lunch in a stereotypically Parisian café. He munched his _croque monsieur_ , considered smoking a Gauloise to complete the image, but reluctantly decided against, purchasing a pack for sole use running too close to addiction. Sandra would lecture him about the effects on his lungs; she might be bossy but she did care... Erin would just look at him sadly. _Much_ more effective. Another gallery, and he returned to the apartment for another wonderful bath, relaxing under the bubbles.  
  
He became aware of raised voices. By the time he had emerged from the bathroom it was clear that Claudie had arrived, with the maligned Philippe, but he couldn’t put off his reappearance any longer.  
  
“Philippe was just leaving,” said M Dubois in tetchy clipped French, ushering a runty chap out the door. Patrick saw a brown leather jacket and very blue jeans slouch out, topped with a mullet – ugh, what _had_ Claudie been thinking? And still was, as she called out something incomprehensible in her father’s direction, and ran out after her boyfriend.  
  
“I am sorry, that Claudine does not have the manners to stay with us for dinner. Her young man, is, I'm afraid, not good for her.”  
“But will she see it? Mais non!” Mme Dubois seemed upset.  
“All we can do is wait,” M Dubois reassured his wife. “She is normally a sensible girl. What do you think, Patrice?”  
  
_Firstly, I wish you wouldn't call me Patrice, but it would be churlish to say so. Claudie – well the woman is frankly terrifying, and I doubt you could call her working her way through young men, yours truly included, sensible. Did I mention the terrifying?_ He couldn't have explained tactfully in French if he'd tried, so resorted to pleasant comments about her cooking, and her admin skills being of great help in supporting his father. Yes, his father was well, re-elected with an increased majority, yes, his mother also, spending most of her time in London, where he was now at school.  
  
“ _Bon_. And tomorrow, I can show you the good shopping districts, and perhaps we see a matinée?”  
Patrick assented; why not? Listening to Mme Dubois' constant chatter was why he was here, after all. A contrast was provided by M Dubois over dinner, and then they introduced him to a soap opera on TV – they wouldn't watch it themselves, normally, you understand, ‘but for you, it should be educational.’ They showed an _excellent_ grasp of the plot for people who'd never watched. Indeed, though the plots were weak and the acting worse, Patrick picked up many useful phrases from that programme, and relaxed to let the dire comedy and light quiz shows that followed wash over him.  
  
The next day he was escorted to a district of eminently-respectable clothiers, but, in dismay, realised they'd only be capable of dressing him as a middle-aged bureaucrat with a fondness for golf. He acquired some socks and belts to show willing. Always needed socks, after all; his Christmas had been oddly deficient in that department – but after the film, all talk, no action, not one he'd ever have chosen himself, he pleaded a headache and returned to the flat, rather than tag along to visit Mme Dubois' friend Claire, _so sympathique_.  
  
He let himself in, having escaped the lift whose metal cage was way too reminiscent of a small prison cell. He admired the _objets d’art_ in the vestibule, “I’ll have that one, and that,” planning how he’d redecorate Meriot Chase should the funds ever exist, (not likely, ever), as he went to his room. The odd noise didn’t register at first, and then he assumed it was the Parisian plumbing, but as he undressed it came to him, _crying._ Sobbing, even. Putting his dressing gown on, he went in search, though if he'd thought for one moment, he'd have known; it had to be Claudie.  
  
There she was, holding two cushions to her chest, folded in half as she sat on the couch, rocking and crying. For once she was not the perfectly-turned-out specimen of Parisian chic, which made Patrick evilly happy, especially when he saw a bubble of snot coming from her nose. No longer the scruffy relation, he passed her a handkerchief. She took it without any eye contact and blew her nose noisily, not like a girl normally would. He was glad not to receive the hanky back.  
  
“Claudie, what's wrong?” She gave no reply and he recast the sentence into French. “Que-ce...”  
“C’est Philippe...”  
“What's happened to him?” He managed that in French, at least.  
“Il est...” _something?_  
“Sorry, I don't know that word?”  
Claudie switched to English. “He is a... A bastard, nothing, no-good, dees-gusting, piece of _shit_!”  
It sounded more like _sheet_ , but he managed not to laugh in the circs, which were clear enough.  
“He dumped you?”  
“Ha! I dump him! The du-plic-it-ous creep!”  
  
Blowing her nose, Claudie related in a mixture of English and French how they had returned to his _atelier_ the night before, to find another woman there, who was _most_ familiar with the place, yet neither friend nor family... And he was a liar, and she was welcome to him, the...  
Patrick learned several new words and phrases by the time she calmed down, none of which he suspected were ones he could use in class. 

“I'll make some tea.” It was the stereotypical English response, but a range of herbal concoctions seemed to fulfil the same cultural niche in France. He picked chamomile, recognising the word on the box. They sipped together, mostly in silence, and he realised his fear of her had dissipated somewhat.  
  
She had calmed down a fraction and gone to take a bath by the time Mme Dubois returned. Patrick mentioned, by-the-intentional-way, that Claudie was in and appeared to have ended her relationship with Philippe. He didn't know the phrase which burst out of her mouth, but the mention of God and the eyes rolled to the ceiling suggested that Mme Dubois was incredibly pleased.  
  
A somewhat subdued Claudie appeared for dinner, and Patrick was glad that she wasn't her previous patronising self, always with the cutting comment, "tu es un bébé..." nor making pointed remarks on his inexperience in life. In fact, a quiet Claudie was innocuous company, so he accepted his fate when Mme Dubois arranged that Claudie should take him clothes shopping the next day, she being so much more in touch with the ‘youth of today’.  
  
Claudie appeared at breakfast; a brittle, bright version of her usual self. Stick to the mission, Patrick told himself. “Where would be good for clothes?” he enquired of her. “I need more formal trousers, most urgent, possibly a new s _moking_ , also a few more casual trousers and shirts.” Finally, all those French O-level lessons learning vocab for items of clothing were coming in useful. “Though if we do get me a new DJ I'll have to change more money...” He'd brought a couple hundred pounds from his stash of notes, just in case, and hoped he could acquire a stylish wardrobe to see him through the next couple years, with Claudie's eye, which he could claim was all from bargain-hunting in Paris.  
  
First, she led him to a tailor near the Lafayette. “The trousers may need tailoring, just hemming I mean, not bespoke!” There was a hint at her old disparaging tone, but he sensed Claudie was trying not to antagonise him. Then, they would go to Montmartre.  
  
He followed her through the Métro, silently. They entered a small gentlemen’s outfitters, and Patrick explained his needs. A quick check of the waist with a tape measure, a pile brought to him, confirmation that the pair with a satin stripe were the most flattering – something about his thighs, using words he'd only met via menus, _oh_ , they must mean muscle – and agreement that the _pantalon_ would be taken up to the right length, no, no material cut off, Monsieur may grow further, best be safe...  
  
While Claudie confirmed the time for collection, Patrick amused himself by trying on a few jackets brought out by the assistant. One seemed to fit like a glove. He turned round. The proprietor’s eyes widened approvingly, but it was Claudie's exclamation which told him _yes,_ he _needed_ this dinner jacket. The price made him wince, though not so much as the embarrassment of Claudie's haggling, which seemed to involve appeals to the owner's imagination and memory of being a youth, entering the adult world, unconfident that spots had gone... He edged away so he didn't have to listen. Especially because it was all true.  
  
She came to him. “If you take a shirt as well, then he will do the whole _costume_ for 900. Yes?” He nodded. That was most of his official money from his mother, but it was for a good cause. “We will try it on tomorrow and then pay, to ensure it is good together.” He submitted to more measurements, tried on a few shirts – one he’d rather liked, with ruffles, was a flat no from Claudie, and reluctantly he put it back. But another with small vertical pleats earned the nod from her. He agreed. It made him look less skinny, somehow.  
  
That done, they broke for a quick baguette lunch, mostly in silence. She looked mopey, but not admitting it, and he didn't want to bring anything up. “Still want other clothes?” she asked as they rose.  
“Please.”  
  
They took a bus up to the Sacre-Coeur on the top of Montmartre, wordless again, and walked down to where swarms of younger adults were heading in and out of clothes shops. Market stalls occupied the other side of the street, also offering clothes and accessories. Claudie tried on various hats, some seriously, some for laughs, which he took for a good sign. A shop specialising in jeans, _what_ a clever scheme. He took a proffered pile, tried on half a dozen, decided on two. The assistant asked a question about trying something else he didn't catch. Claudie was behind the man, doing a huge thumbs-up and enthusiastic gestures, so he assented. Ah, narrow cords, yes, good idea. Reluctantly, he kept himself to one pair jeans plus one of black cords, which he wore out of the shop, his old too-short ones banished into a bag.  
  
A couple casual shirts, slim-fit, and a classic grey sweater, soft from some cashmere, you need, Claudie told him. Important to have a classic wardrobe before university. He wanted to call it a day after that, despite being willing to put on a new shirt and the jumper, to wear them in. But he was ushered back to the market, where he protested that it was far too cold to try on T-shirts – the stall-holder regarded him sourly – and such things did exist in England, after all. A stall of coats, though, he couldn't use that argument. Velvet jackets, no, its not the 1970s! Suede, no, and _no_ biker gear, thank you. He heard Claudie mention his chest measurement – it felt horribly intimate, that detail being publicised, which he hadn’t known himself until that morning – and the chap put down his cigarette and rifled through some other leather jackets.  
He passed a couple over the table. The first jacket was too tight on the arms, the next had a silly collar. Patrick picked up a few more words, though pointing was a perfectly good way to communicate, he felt. "Come on, let's go. The lights going," he pleaded.  
“Just these two, then.”  
Patrick wriggled into the sleeves of the first, looked down. Not bad, didn't make him look stupidly skinny nor like a giant turtle. He turned the hanging panel of mirror towards himself. And was startled by the well-dressed man he saw.  
Claudie was already haggling prices, came to some conclusion, and was pulling out money to pay for the jacket.  
"Hey, this is mine! I can't let you buy it!"  
“ _Si_!” A contradiction after a negative, he remembered. “ _Joyeux Nöel_.”  
“Mais _non!_ It's far, far too expensive to be a present! _I_ will pay.” Future tenses and subjunctives were useful after all – who knew?  
“Don't be ridiculous.” It was the closest she'd come to the old Claudie all day. “It's not as if I have a boyfriend to buy for. Let me.”  
He was momentarily tempted – did he really want to blow another forty quid when Claudie was offering the thing to him? But _no_.  
“Non.” He resorted to English. “I'm not being beholden to you. Oh bother...” Back to French. “Not going to have you thinking I owe you, again.” So many conditionals...

She looked confused. “Owe? Again?”

“You know. Expecting me to do things you want.” He gave up – his French wasn’t getting through, and the stallholder was paying at least half an ear’s attention. He hissed, in English,  
“In bed, you got what you wanted from me. I’m not letting you again.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort!” she exclaimed huffily.

“Good. Because I’m not going to be used again.”  
She looked confused at him, then stepped back, the brittle impression back, intensified. She clenched a fist and raised it slowly to her chest.  
“Tu n'as pas veux? Vraiment?”  
“Vraiment. Non.” Really.  
She stood as if frozen. Patrick felt guilty, imposing that on her, but no, _she'd_ started it... He wrenched himself round, pulled out his notes. “C'est combien? Bon. Voici quatre cent, et cinquante... Merci beaucoup.” And, as a sting to Claudie, “ _Joyeux Nöel!_ ”  
  
Claudie was clearly about to cry again, eyeliner magnified by a blob of moisture, and he didn't want to think of the results of tears and mascara. Suddenly protective, he ushered her to a bench, sweeping damp leaves off it. She was looking only at her lap, but then words emerged from her husk.  
“They say, always, the young men always want...”  
“ _They_ say lots of nonsense.” He heard Simon's voice in his head as he said it, despite the different language, and sat down next to her.  
“Really, it is not so? I thought, with...” She drew her curved hand up and down an invisible oblique line.  
“Even then.” He sighed. “Thing is, it's a little bit true. Always wanting, yes, sort of, but only in theory – not wanting in practice, because it's scary, wanting to wait... all the same reasons as women, I suppose.”  
“Except one.”  
“Oh. True, one less – well, _no_ , actually, it's different consequences, but the same fear...”  
“C’est egal.”  
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Patrick started to notice the cold through his coat. She was shivering and he put his arm round her. She was, now, shorter than he was, though still a similar weight, he guessed, with her curves, though he'd built up a little, wasn’t as scrawny as he had been. 

“Come on. Let's get you home.”  
“I don't want to go home. To... To my parents?”  
It took him a minute to parse that she had another home, a shared attic, where she had a tiny room, and three others – none of them Philippe – also lived. She was trying to strike out on her own, though independence was hard when luxury was a short Métro ride away.  
He stood up, and put his hand out to her. She appeared shrunken, not just shorter than he. 

They stepped down the hills back to the Métro. As they waited for the squeal of a train, she said, looking at the tracks, “Je suis vraiment désolée, que je t'ai pris pour acquis.”  
“So you should be sorry, and yes, you took me for granted! Took...”  
He couldn't feel scared of her now, but he needed her to know how much she'd hurt him, cheapened, _contaminated_ what should have been special for him… “As-tu prendre Philippe pour acquis aussi?” He regretted the sentence half-way through, not just because he'd got the verb wrong, and not just because she cried.  
"Mais non!" She made as if to slap him; cowered back.  
  
“Il a me pris...”  
He wasn't sure exactly what that implied, decided it didn't really matter, felt like a heel later when he thought about _that_. "This Philippe, bit of a scumbag, yes? Sounds like you're well rid."  
She nodded, sniffling. “The worst thing is, my parents were right...”  
  
“They're annoying like that. Parents. Seem to be right more as I grow older, too.”  
Another nod. “I am sorry. I truly thought, you wanted...”  
He eased in his disgust towards her. “I'm not saying, I really _didn't_ want. Just I didn't _agree_ , right then.”  
She raised her head, wobbled it up and down thoughtfully, blew her nose noisily on a handkerchief. “C’est la différence.”  
  
The train trundled in on those unnervingly-quiet rubber wheels. She found a seat; he stood a few yards from her, glad of the excuse to stop talking. Such _stupid_ social expectations all the time, on men, women, must speak make conversation here, shouldn't have said that, must stay quiet about the other... Why couldn't anyone ever talk about sex properly, not just have it or haven't? He'd thought girls were a bit better at that, though _look_ at where that had got him and Claudie...  
  
"Très bon. Un type _chic classique_ ," Mme Dubois murmured approvingly as he came to the dinner table in his new gear.  
  
The following day they collected his new penguin suit from the tailor. Exiting the dressing room, the aged gnome with rimless round glasses gave his approval. Claudie cocked her head to one side with an expression he couldn't discern.  
“You are truly dressed ‘sur son trente-et-un’!”  
  
“Dressed for New Years Eve?” Oh! _Idiom: dressed to the nines._ And tomorrow was the thirty-first. “Ha ha, very good.”  
“You have plans?”  
“Well, they were scuppered by coming to Paris... Your parents are hosting a dinner, I understand.”  
She shrugged. “I suppose they will, as they usually do. It will be good food, many courses. The company is for me though very” _something._  
“Sorry?”  
“The guests, they are older, formal... _Stiff_ , I think you would say?”  
“I see. _Starchy_ , even. Yes? But, sounds like you weren't going to be there?”  
“No, we will be with friends, my flatmates, Hélène and,” 

It sounded like _Uh-deet_ , _surely_ not? “How do you spell that?”  
She obliged. Oh, _Edith_...  
“We?”  
“Philippe et moi... Oh...”  
She started to crumple again, her poise so much tissue-paper. Then she pressed herself upright again. “Non. He shall _not_ spoil the evening. I shall go, celebrate on the Champs-Elysée with thousands, with my friends.”  
Patrick became uncomfortably aware of her side-eye.  
“You shall come with me.”  
He grasped that it was a request – a plea? - rather than an order, but… “Me?”  
“Pourquoi pas? You are saying you would prefer the olds? You _are_ a fuddy-duddy.”  
“No, just wouldn't your parents expect...?”  
“Leave it to me. One more, one less for dinner, it is no matter. Besides, you should be learning the French of people your age, not to speak like you lived through the war...”  
“And your friends?  
“Pas de problème. It is a big group, you understand, we meet and dance in the street, there is music, fireworks. It is not _intime_...”  
“OK. Thanks.” Standing around in a crowd, not having to perform French grammar like a performing seal for the amusement of the Duboises’ friends – it had to be an improvement. 

Besides, he was secretly very fond of fireworks – proper displays, shooting through the sky, not just one every few minutes in someone’s garden making a disappointing dribble of fire in the dark.  
“Not at all. My flatmates and others, they are always happy to meet a new young man.”  
He squinted at her, but eventually concluded she wasn't being sarcastic. _Probably._  
“Besides, it will make Philippe jealous.”  
“Rat-tail man?”  
She spat.  
“I'm not going to pretend to be your boyfriend, if _that's_ what you mean.”  
“Oh, no. Though, can you _imagine_ his face... I suppose you can't. All ego, popping like a balloon.” She giggled, and he joined in, finding that this heart-broken – no, not exactly – heart- _wrenched_ Claudie was surprisingly tolerable.  
  
And suddenly, the three years between them was much smaller a gap than it had been. He wasn't going to calculate the percentage difference; it wasn't just that that had reduced; _he_ was being treated as an adult, an equal, and _she_ wasn't attempting to be more grown-up than he was, to cement her own wobbly new adult status. He felt suddenly older, himself.  
  
They declined to stay out further in the wet, though Claudie informed him that they _would_ be going out the next evening, rain or no. Luckily, the next afternoon subjected them to no more than a misty drizzle, which then dissipated as they got ready.  
  
“Yes, the black trousers. Good.” She looked him up and down. “A bit of hair gel, oh, let me do it, _men_ , really...”  
Submitting to Claudie playing hairdresser was the easiest option, Patrick decided, as she slicked back the right lock of hair, not the wrong one. It occurred to him that her breezy teasing manner had changed – he was now in on her jokes, not the outside of them, whether he wished to be in that inner circle or not.  
Once he met her approval, he offered his services to M and Mme Dubois in the kitchen, but, working to military precision, his help was shooed away, though Mme Dubois was delighted to provide a running monologue on progress.  
  
“Let's go.”  
Claudie was dressed indeed ‘for New Year’s Eve’, as they said. It wasn't just the smokey make-up, but the sparkles round her neck, and the stretch of that dress that was _certainly_ shorter than anything she'd worn when she'd been living with his family. He felt a need to adjust his new trousers; they were a bit stiff.  
  
He checked he had the precious key back to the apartment, for likely retreat later should Claudie get too lairy, and followed her, silently, to the Métro. The crowd was younger than the usual rush-hour throng, shinier, anxious to slough off 1984 as so much dead skin. He wondered if Orwell were well-known in France. She gestured at him and he joined her to squeeze out into the crowded street. First right, second left, a wooden doorway leading into a large, unloved lobby area.  
“There are many stairs,” she warned him.  
Indeed, after two elegant flights, there were three more up a narrow wooden staircase before Claudie knocked on a badly-painted plywood door. It was ajar, so he followed her, an awkward duckling, into the mass of people.  
  
Trying to understand colloquial French in a crowd was tricky, but someone genially shoved a tumbler of plonk into his hand, and he sipped it, watching the outfits interacting with Claudie. Parisian student booze was certainly an improvement over any wine at English equivalent events, raids on parental cabinets excepted. He heard someone venture to mention Philippe, and Claudie's contemptuous reply. Worth as much as the dog dirt on her shoe, he decoded. Then she explained his existence: ‘a friend from when I lived in England’. Good, he allowed; not a ‘friend-of-the-family’, nor worse, ‘the boy she was sort of au-pairing’. Yes, he speaks good sensible French, just needs to learn... Something scurrilous? Or just 'colloqualisms'? He raised his glass to her. It triggered a number of the young women and men – his equals, must remember that – to come over and introduce themselves, J-P, Claire, Jean, all good classic names from _Tricolore_ , Edith, Catharine, not so much. All very genial and not unpleasant.  
  
In response to no signal that he could detect, the whole party suddenly stood up and started to head out. A couple of beer bottles were passed to him which he stowed in his coat for later, and he followed Claudie, Edith and J-P down the staircases.  
  
They went back towards the main streets, which started to look slightly familiar. Eventually he caught sight of the Arc de Triomphe, illuminated stark white against ink-black sky, and realised for once it wasn’t cars causing a traffic jam across the roads, but people, so many people. Even London didn't squeeze so many people into one place, unless perhaps you were at Wembley. The atmosphere was remarkably similar to the Clapton concert he'd managed to score a ticket for, leaving him skint throughout the last summer. The anticipation of the crowd became palpable as he felt himself get squashed further.  
“Oi!” he squawked, figuring interjections were close enough in any language.  
“Pardon,” a voice called sarcastically, sorry-not-sorry.  
  
Edith managed to pass him a bottle-opener; he opened one beer and passed it back to her. Someone somewhere must have rigged up a sound system as music was detectable, not at a professional volume, but the push of the crowd eased, and it started to sway like a cradle, a token effort at dancing. A group nearby started singing, some anthem he didn't know, but it was all friendly and no-one really cared if he said anything or not, so he remained silent, inhaling the night air, different cigarette smoke to that at home, different trees from the London planes and oaks of Hampstead. The crowd perked up to the sounds of the radio – dozens of radios, all on the same station. An excited announcer was incoherent, but then the rhythm of words became unmistakable.  
“Quinze! Quatorze! Treize! Douze!”  
  
He opened his last beer, and raised it in the direction of Claudie and Edith. They raised their joint wine bottle back at him.  
“Trois! Deux! Un! Joyeux jour de l'an… Bonne Année!”  
The toasts were rapidly abandoned in favour of his necking the drink and then defending himself in the mélee as all the thousand people round him tried to kiss all the others. Two kisses, don't bash heads, don't fall over, mind that woman trying to cop a snog – ooh, _she's_ nice – happy new year to you too, oi, you, elbowing you off me, seriously, we’re _still_ going? More kisses, thank goodness, mostly the crowd he came with, and there was Claudie, _phew_.  
She caught his eye as she moved her head to kiss his other cheek, made the slightest pause as if to move to his lips instead, but she’d thought better of it, and ceremony was completed.  
They all oozed back the way they'd come, up all the stairs, J-P leading some raucous singing, probably filthy if he'd understood more of the words. Edith linked arms with J-P, reached down and took Patrick's hand. “A pleasure to meet you properly,” she said. “Claudie has spoken of you.”  
He managed to control his panting up the last, steepest, stairs and figured out how to say, “Nothing too bad, I hope?” What he really wanted to ask was how much detail she'd gone into, but really, he didn't want to know.  
“Nothing bad. Très polie...”  
She sounded approving, which, given her looks and no doubt alcohol-fuelled _joie de vivre_ , Patrick was glad of, if also not going to do anything about. Surviving this gathering, picking up some French phrases, _not_ French women, were his current priorities, though actually, sitting down would rank above all those...  
He ended up on a bean bag on the floor, adjacent to J-P, who enquired about life in London. He was considering moving there for a while, but unsure of the infamous damp drizzle... Patrick found, to his relief, that he could carry on a conversation with little effort, the odd circumlocution required, but almost invariably if he didn’t know the French, J-P didn't know the English phrase, which helped Patrick manage to fight down his feelings of inadequacy, and, after another beer or two, his self-consciousness. It was then he noticed someone pointing at another lad – someone's friend of a friend – and the call, "Lève ton verre!"  
Nervously, Patrick raised his bottle, but J-P waved his hand horizontally, _no_. "Non, _chante_!"  
_Sing._ And the crowd did, staring at the young man who seemed to take in his stride some commands to lift his glass to various body parts, followed by knocking it back to what must be French for "down, down, down" - or in retrospect, 'glug, glug, glug'. Clapping, cheers, an incomprehensible verse, and slappings-on-back ensued, and the chap smiled.  
“Your turn,” J-P warned Patrick.  
He was passed a glass for his beer, and J-P told him, “don't worry, I'll point at the right places for you.” This time Patrick grasped the gist: raise your glass, don't spill it, put it to your head, your chin? The body parts seemed more cod Latin than anything, but finally the order, _put it in your gob, glug glug_.  
Patrick took a deep breath and downed it in one – thank goodness it wasn't particularly fizzy, this lager, and over the applause, he heard some of the words. _You're one of us._  
Possibly the effect of all the drinks, but he rather liked that idea.  
He stood, mostly to check he could, found the toilet, again to be on the safe side, and returned to J-P. He noticed the apartment door open and another three people squeeze in, which was in itself an achievement.  
"Oh, there's Claudie’s chap," J-P commented.  
“Chap? Philippe?”  
“Yes. You've met him?”  
“Not so much. Saw him leaving, at her parents. But, a few days ago, she...” Vocab failed him. “They are not a couple, any more.”  
“No! Really? Though he is a...” Another unfamiliar word.  
“A rat?”  
“Yes, that. I do not like him, myself. What do you know?”  
Given the opening, Patrick figured he might as well say. “Claudie found him, and another woman...”  
“Oh.”  
“You don't sound surprised.”  
“Huh? Well, not that there was one, no. But she would never listen to sense, that one. With men, that Claudie, she is all naive, wanting to please, you see? A creep like him, he says ‘you do this and it will please me, you will deserve me...’” He shrugged, disdainful and Gallic.  
“She fell for it.” Patrick commented. He said it in English, then back to the labour of French. “She was fooled by it? You know, that's funny.”  
J-P raised an eyebrow, exactly as in the movies. “Why?”  
“Claudie... She lived with my family, for over a year. And she is, what, four years, nearly five, older than me? So when I was fifteen, it was always, ‘tu es un bébé, you are naif, child...’ Telling me what a grown-up would do... And now, these last two days, it's different.”  
“How old are you now, then?”  
“Eighteen, in March.”  
“Aie!” It was a humorous squawk, and Patrick liked him the more for it. “A moment, here comes Claudie. Do you think they should be in the same space?”  
“I don't know. I don't know her enough. W ill she hit him, or just cry?”  
“I don't care about either of those. I'm more worried she'll take him back!”  
“Really? You think she might?”  
Patrick parsed J-P's exclaimed response as “she was daft enough to get together with him in the first place,” and scraped himself up to follow J-P into the hallway.  
  
Philippe _had_ noticed Claudie, and had squared up to face her – he looked even more like a weasel from the front, Patrick thought, that chin sticking out petulantly. He would probably have seemed handsome with a better expression on his face. His hand was reaching out to Claudie, who was looking pained – no, _conflicted –_ damn, J-P was right...  
J-P pushed past a couple snogging enthusiastically to get into the corridor, and called out to Philippe. Yet again, Patrick didn't catch the words, but decoded the second sentence: ‘no second chances, _matey_.’  
And _ah_ , that's what an ‘if looks could kill’ look looked like... Suddenly Patrick understood, no matter what _he_ thought of bloody Claudie, she shouldn't go off with this scumbag. He didn't know how to say it in French, but of course Claudie had mastered English living with the Merricks...  
Standing beside J-P, he put on his best hard London accent, copied from The Bill: “Oi, leave it out! He ain't worth it!”  
She looked up at him, backing up J-P, and suddenly her strained, near-tearful face cracked and she giggled.  
She put her finger on Philippe's chin, pushing him away like a small yappy dog.  
“Non, merci. _These_ are real men.”  
Patrick leaned on the wall trying not to giggle girlishly himself, which was perhaps as well as Philippe was spitting at J-P in fury, and two other lads came up while he was distracted, who efficiently deposited Philippe onto the landing, on the wrong side of the closed door. A kick and a thump, but then presumably the man-rodent stomped off home. He was reminded of his mother's dry line about a local feckless father: ‘He was not a good man, as such men go, and as such men go, he went.’ At least he was leaving Claudie well out of it before any children were on the scene. Patrick wondered where the other woman had got to.  
  
Edith had appeared and had put her arm round Claudie. They both went into Claudie’s room, causing a couple to apologise and sneak out sheepishly, and J-P and Patrick followed.  
  
The room surprised him, but then it filtered through to his brain that he'd never seen before a room decorated to Claudie’s own tastes, only her one at his house – a couple photos and an ugly ornament – and the one she used at Meriot Chase – no personification at all. This, however, had fabric pinned over the walls and some old brass lamps, repurposed to take electric, giving the chamber a Bohemian feel. Beyond that, candles shoved in empty wine bottles, and bookshelves of planks held up with bricks made her identity clear: I am not a mere product of the house of Dubois; I am an independent student. It helped Patrick see her anew, not in power over him. Especially as she was finally letting herself cry. Quietly, but openly. Wouldn't catch one of the Marlow girls doing that, he thought, and then felt guilty, more about Nicola, about whom he always felt he'd screwed her over in some indefinable way, than Ginty, who could help herself very well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Patrick, I gave up on French two years before O-level, so corrections gratefully received!
> 
> The drinking song is this one: https://blogs.transparent.com/french/leve-ton-verre-french-drinking-songs/


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Day in Paris.

Edith patted Claudie’s shoulder and hauled herself up off the low bed. “We need more wine. Sit with her, I will fetch it.”

Silently, Patrick obeyed. J-P pulled up the only chair, away from the melamine desk Claudie had done her best to disguise under sheets of patterned paper. It was the sort of improvement he could see Ginty or Kathy doing, and he swallowed.  
Edith returned, possibly wobbling, though that might have been his head. “Il n'ya pas des verres, je m'excuserai...” No glasses. She waved the opened bottle unnervingly near Claudie’s nose. “Bois, tu!” _Drink, woman!_  
Claudie obeyed, and sat up straighter, more brave in her new world that didn't have Philippe in it.  
Edith shared the bottle around. Patrick steeled himself for plonk at that stage of the night, but it was perfectly drinkable – of course, he _was_ in France, though the facts that he was already at the standing up ever-so-carefully stage of inebriation, and lacking any connoisseurship at that point, only occurred to him later.  
“See, Claudine, you have two new men already!”  
  
Patrick winced inside. How on earth did one say diplomatically _or_ idiomatically, ' _not on your nelly_ '? He glanced at J-P, who was grinning. Oh, it was a _joke_ , thank goodness – yes, Edith was grinning too, point to her. He forced a smile and asked, “How do you both know Claudie?” A good old conversational standard.  
  
Edith was studying the same business management course as Claudie, which was why they had sought and found this flat. They were very different, Edith said, which Patrick could guess from her shaven head and army-surplus clothing, but they both found each other and the other two women easy enough to live with.  
“And, in the end, it is of the most importance that flatmates do washing-up and do not make too much noise. The personality is always in second place.” Three years on, choosing people for a house-share in Cambridge, Patrick recalled Edith's advice. Later that year, seeing the problems in many other college houses, he appreciated the wisdom properly.  
“And Claudie, whatever you may think, is clean and will wash up.”  
“I believe you. I lived with her for nearly a year, after all.”  
“Oh! You are of _that_ family!” He wondered, again, what Claudie had been saying about him. Edith seemed disinclined to say anything further, so he turned to the chair.  
  
“What about you, J-P?”  
“How I know Claudie?” He and Claudie both chuckled – that wine must have done her good. “Since ever. Grew up next door. She was a sweet little girl...”  
Claudie roused herself enough to make a crude gesture at him. “So I have known her nearly 20 years. She is like a sister.”  
“And he treats me like one.” She pretended to be serious as she pouted.  
“Yes, and I am so glad you finally listened to your big brother and told that ...( _what?)_ Philippe where to go. He did not treat you right.”  
She looked as if she was going to cry again. “I was so _stupid_.” At this point she did cry, and Patrick, as nearest, passed her a tissue, causing her to blow her nose loudly and then cling to him like a black-clad octopus. “Even you had better taste,” she muttered at him.  
“Bit blowing your own trumpet, that, what?” he retorted in English. Then back to French, hoping no-one else would have understood what he'd just blurted out. “Oh. You mean Ginty. Mm. I suppose. She _means_ to be a decent person...”  
“Doesn't everyone,” Claudie responded curtly. “Doesn’t mean they are any good at it.”  
It felt unfair, counting Ginty in the same category as a cheating, possibly violent weasel, but not _exactly_ wrong.  
“Ginty?” Edith queried, clearly hoping for some gossip.  
“Son petite amie. Excuse-moi, ancienne petite amie, n'est pas?” _Former_ girlfriend.  
“Oui.” Patrick hoped to shut down the conversation, but in his drunken state, couldn't think how to change the subject, in any language. Possibly in Latin, one could say...  
“And what happened” Perhaps he _didn’t_ like Edith all that much after all.  
“Oh, they were so sweet! She lived on the farm next door, had about five sisters, but she was the most good-looking one. A bit like Princess Diana… They went riding together and sitting in the gardens having long deep conversations – he lent her Proust and poetry – I don't know if either ever read them... And then she went to her school – an _internat_ – and would telephone him almost every night... and he sat at the table, listening, with this expression on his face, so,” She pulled a face that managed to remind him of a poodle waiting for a command from its owner; in spite of himself he joined the others in chuckling.  
“And then it was discovered, she was breaking rules every night, to use the head-teacher’s telephone! _And_ she had the questions for his maths exam by her. Now, these naive children, they say Patrick is not good at maths,” -

“S'true, got a D” - 

“so: here she has the opportunity to help him, we know she is happy to break rules, entering a private room, so many times, lying about where she is, stealing the price of the telephony, thousands of francs worth, but she and he say she did not tell him any questions because _that_ would be wrong. _Really?_ I think she just wanted someone to listen to her, and did not love him nor care truly about him...”  
  
Patrick listened with amusement overcoming embarrassment, and figured Claudie's conclusion was correct, realising Claudie's moral compass wasn't as screwy as he and his mother had understood from when she'd tried to make the same point in English, over a year ago now. Motive and opportunity. Not just the classic amoral Frenchie lacking _d'honneur_ , after all. And he couldn't really fault the faint disdain towards Ginty, who’d never been brave enough to be properly bad. Really, given she'd always tried to be what she'd thought he wanted her to be, he'd supposed he’d never really known her at all. Or perhaps, there just wasn't really a personality to know, and didn't _that_ now give him the shivers? A living, pretty zombie...  
  
“And you were an improvement?” J-P was clearly trying to wind her up, but _damn,_ he knew...  
“We had no relationship – he was young, you understand, but everyone has to start somewhere” - _oi,_ I'm _here_ , you know - “the man I was seeing, he had gone abroad – I was lonely, yes, but I thought I was being kind...”  
He saw how it had been for her – he'd been right that she was on the rebound – what a _mess_...  
  
She was about to cry again, and no, he didn't want her feeling _that_ bad. ‘Do unto others’ had a lot to answer for, aside from Kingsley being a _horribly_ twee author.  
  
“Claudie didn't try to change who she was, which was nice.” Patrick felt proud of that sentence, a compliment, and true, yet not going too far, and all in French! Hardly even slurring...  
  
“Bon. Glad she managed it with you, because with Philippe she's been a right...”  
“ _Wet tea-towel_ ,” Claudie translated J-P’s remark for him automatically.  
“C’est ça,” Edith agreed, and Claudie looked daggers at her, realising what she’d admitted.  
  
Edith yawned. “I need my bed. Three-thirty! I will say good-night. Patrique, you see if you can be a good influence on her before you return to England. J-P, there is my couch, it is most comfortable.”  
  
He wasn't sure if Edith meant for him to repeat his previous cheering-up and distraction technique on a broken-hearted Claudie, or merely to give her a pep talk in the morning once they'd sobered up, but either way, the calm acceptance from the room that people did, occasionally, have sex, was pleasantly novel. The years of school had seemed endless, of everyone obsessing over who had done what to whom – and whether that made them a slag, a stud, or frigid – so much pressure – whether to lie or to tell the truth for least hassle – and getting to a point where it was generally accepted that most people had had, with someone, but that wasn't in itself gossip-worthy, was quite relaxing. Not that there _wasn't_ gossip – and he was fairly sure that if he ever returned, he'd be part of it – but it seemed more good-natured. He felt like an equal adult, now. Though _that_ was somewhat nerve-wracking  in itself… He was blissfully unaware of the tone of debate in the other flatmates’ bedrooms, threatening both Philippe and Edith for very different reasons.  
  
J-P stood up. “Oh-kay zen, and toodle-peep, you say, yes?” Patrick exchanged a secret smile with Claudie, and allowed that yes, he did. The door closed behind him. Patrick, realising how exhausted he was, lay back on the futon where he sat, toeing off his shoes and kicking them aside, perfect polish be damned. Claudie scrabbled to ditch her nylons, shoes already elsewhere, and collapsed alongside him.  
“You are safe, you know. I will inspire - no, _in_... Not start nothing. Anything.” Surprised at her sudden effort to speak English, he concentrated, and figured it out.  
“Instigate?”   
  
“Oui. I will instigate nothing.”  
  
“Good.” He couldn't describe his emotions towards her, a horrible tangle of sympathy, disgust, liking, hidden under his crawling skin. If feelings were hairs, his were a collection just pulled from the plughole, congealed with slime...  
He rolled to the side so he could get under the duvet, and blacked out in a drunken sleep.  
Some hours later – it was still dark – he couldn't be bothered with the buttons of the sweaty shirt that reeked of spilt beer, but removed the new trousers that were a bit itchy to sleep in, leaving tiny hairs all over his legs. Glad of his new boxers, he wandered to the kitchen to seek water. He'd rinsed a glass and downed a pint before noticing a few people – none he immediately recognised – calling to him, but in the liminal mental space between sleep, inebriation, and a hangover, he didn't venture to communicate. He swilled out his mouth and spat in the sink, refilled the glass and started back to the bedroom.  
The parting comment got through to him, though: "She moves on fast!"  
He didn't bother to try to say anything, simply raised two fingers vigorously in their direction and walked on, silent. Then he was hit by disquiet: was a two finger salute particularly insulting to the French because Agincourt, or not understood because not British, and should he have adopted that American middle-digit version? He'd ask Claudie later – the woman was useful in some ways, he conceded.  
  
She lay on her back, snoring with her mouth wide open, drool mixed with smeared lipstick running down the side of her face, the grey of mascara smudges over her cheeks. He winced at the parody she’d become of a beautiful woman, and returned to his side of the bed. Another swig of water for luck, a disconcerting feeling that the sheets were scented with Philippe 's sweat as well as his own, and he went back to sleep.  
  
He was dozing, later, when her voice roused him. "Bonne Année!"  
He raised himself up to his elbows with a start, and his skull did not appreciate it. He groaned and fumbled for the water.  
Claudie switched to English. "I'm sorry. We should have been more careful not to lead the youth astray." It seemed as if she spoke English to him when she wanted to remind him of when she'd been one of the family, and he'd been an awkward teenage boy... OK, he _was_ both of those still, but he wasn't a _child_ , any way you cared to calculate...  
"Bollocks to that. Late night, is all." He considered demanding hair of the dog, decided his hound was hirsute enough. "Why, got a hangover, have you?" He decided to set an example and switched back to French. "Aw, you poor thing." The effect was reduced by his then having to know, "How do you say, 'oh, diddums' in French?"  
She considered, told him a few phrases, and he used them all back at her.  
She didn't respond, but suggest they go get some breakfast, “While something remains. I must make sure you eat properly,” she fussed.  
“No need to sound so maternal. You don't need to look after me.”  
“Si, je dois! I'm the adult...” It was implied, _and you're not._  
“Not what your mates thought a couple hours ago. Impressed with the _remarkable_ speed of your moving on, they were.”  
“That what you told them?” She was indignant, possibly working up to fury when she'd recovered from the night before and could spare the effort.  
“Hardly. They jumped to that conclusion all by themselves. _I_ told them to fuck off… Besides, you're a fine one to talk, telling J-P and god knows who else you'd had me. Did you tell _them_ you didn't think I was an adult but decided you'd do me anyway? Yeah? Oh, you _didn't_ think that?” He coughed, and his head throbbed. “Forgive me for not feeling relieved. So's why you being all _I grown-up, you child_ , now?” He had to own to himself, that if he hadn't the hangover from hell, he wouldn't have reacted so badly.  
“Moi? What did I say?”  
“You patronising... Animal.” He'd meant to say bint, cow, or similar, but couldn't think of a French word insulting enough that wasn't way over the top. Which he then told her. "I thought ‘you fucking whore’ was a bit harsh..."  
"But you thought it was true, huh? You perfect little Catholic boy, virginal as the spring, and now you blame me for your guilt, yes? You think I'm the satanic temptress, that you'd have done nothing without me? I'm a slut, _you_ think?  
He did indeed blame her for that guilty feeling, and the excruciating confession he'd had later, being made to go into _way_ more detail than he'd expected... And yes, if she hadn't ordered him to... She'd told him he needed to learn lessons, and how could he tell her he didn't, or rather, not from her, she being a guest, a friend of his parents, no less? Clearly the people in the kitchen had grokked her...  
“You really do think so, don't you? You little hypocrite...”  
  
Patrick couldn't think of anything to say, in any language, so remained silent, wishing the stabbing in the back of his head would go away. Along with Claudie and the whole Dubois family... His dry, swollen tongue wasn't helping matters, either. He reached for the water glass, over balanced as he bashed his shin into the futon's base, and splashed half of it over himself. He crossly knocked back the remaining water and began to unbutton his shirt, which was already nastily damp from sweat. He could put the new pullover back on, later, instead.  
  
The shirt was peeled away and chucked towards the chair, from which it slid to the lino. He looked nervously up to Claudie, and realised he was being looked up and down. And he was in his pants. Like those dreams about being in Assembly in underpants, which in future would have so much more potency, as every being would be looking at him with the eyes Claudie had now.  
  
“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly. “You _are_ an adult, not a child.”  
It sounded like dialogue from a porn mag, and no, _that_ was the wrong thought to have, as morning wood caught up with the concept of the new day.  
  
He ought to apologise, too, though buggered if he could figure out what for. He'd stick to English for this conversation – at least then he'd definitely mean what he said, even if she took it all the wrong way. "I'm sorry." In response to her query face, he added, "I _don't_ think that badly of you. Even though I didn’t want to do anything, then. Really."  
  
She coughed over her snort, and rummaged on the bedside table until she found some cigarettes – not a brand Patrick knew – probably cheap ones – lit one, and offered the packet to Patrick. It would help keep him going to breakfast and might even ease that headache, he reasoned.  
“Another sin I introduced you to.”  
“No, actually. Thanks. Had my first ones at school _years_ before – second year – oh, about thirteen? I admit you made it more of a regular thing, but you can't blame yourself for that, I knew _exactly_ what I was doing.”  
  
“If you say so.” They were sticking to their own languages, and reclining on the bed smoking was almost relaxing. All too soon, he had to stub his out, rolling to reach over Claudie to the ashtray.  
  
“It's a shame, she said from beneath his chest.  
“What is?”  
“You are not interested. It is true, a no-strings affair is the best way to feel better from heartbreak, if that is possible. No commitment. I could... atone for the previous time. If you wanted. _Only_ if you want. You must understand, I did not intend... I never meant...”  
 _I'll understand what I damn well please_ , he thought, lying down again. The part of him that had nearly screwed up his O-levels second time around was cheering: you've got a woman offering herself to you on a plate! _Carpe diem!_ The rest of him was trying to think of dates of Kings of England and cold water. It didn't help.  
Eventually the silence reached even his generous limit. He said, quietly, "Erin."  
“Your new girlfriend? Or, no... You hope, but not yet?”  
“I was meant to have my first date with her last night,” he explained.  
“I am sorry. It was not my fault.”  
“I know.”  
The thought buzzed in his mind, but it was Claudie who said it, so he could blame her, "so you are still the single gentleman, then."  
“Yes. At the moment.”  
“A moment is all I'm offering. Don't get above yourself.”  
“Wouldn't.”  
“Good.”  
“Do you want? Distract me from my headache?”  
“Oh, very well, then.”  
“Only if it is totally your decision. Understood?”  
“And yours. Men will like you even without, you know.”  
“You say. I do not believe it.”  
“Come on. What about J-P? Or have you?”  
She giggled, faintly. “I do not think J-P is the womanising kind.”  
“See? Oh, I see... But still, not only that.”  
  
“You stop worrying about my lengthy sexual history - so long it fits on the fingers of one hand. Including le pouce” - _with the thumb_ , she added thoughtfully to her sarcasm. “Do you want my body or not?”  
  
She was wearing a black vest and knickers, and pulled off the vest.  
  
He swallowed.  
"Um. Yeah. Um. It would be good to have, um, practice, before getting a proper girlfriend, wouldn't it?”  
  
“I'm sayin' nuzzin'.” The cod-American clanked oddly with the French accent. “If you want you can have, but it is all on you. Or I go back to sleep. Up to you.”  
  
He chewed the inside of his cheek, and accidentally biting it reminded him both of his nerves and his hangover. The going to sleep option did sound most fine, but hell, there was a topless woman in nothing but knickers right there, throwing herself at him, no, _not_ throwing herself at him, quite the opposite. She was right, damn her; it _was_ all down to him and his conscience.  
  
He chose.  
  
About an hour later she passed him another cigarette. He coughed on it – that's what he got for being only a social smoker, sobriety clearly didn't help co-ordination – and reluctantly hauled himself upright to clear his throat properly. His headache did not thank him.  
"Better?" she asked.  
"Not dying. I suppose."  
“I meant, are you” – she gestured in a wide circle – “OK?”  
It was kind of her to ask, and he resented the consideration.  
“Fine.”  
“Vraiment? I hope I did not...”  
“You did nothing wrong. _My_ sins, regrets, that's all on me.”  
“Ah. Your Catholic guilt strikes again. It is, really, a most unattractive trait of yours. Some things were not meant to be taken so seriously...”  
He grudgingly admitted to himself that she might have a point, but then why was he still feeling grubby about what had been an hour well spent? _Most_ educational, even. He hoped he could offer Erin the benefits, one day... He'd even managed not to gasp Erin’s name at an inopportune moment; Claudie didn't deserve that breach of etiquette, no matter what he'd been thinking... It occurred to him, his satisfaction this time had been earned in her eyes only via his vulnerable previous experience. _Paid for..._  
  
Suddenly, he couldn't bear to be round her for another minute. “You look like crap,” he told her. He got up, sloshed the last of the water over his face and under his arms, and put his damp shirt back on, followed by the trousers.  
  
"We go for breakfast, now?"  
"No. I'm going for a walk." Churlish, but he didn't care. He found the other sock, and crossly re-tied his shoelace which pulled too far the first time. Jumper, coat. Keys for the Dubois'. Sorted, he made his escape.  
  
He took his time on the stairs, reasoning correctly that she wouldn't follow him. The bracing air outside was a relief, as his head throbbed painfully and his guts swithered between wanting to expel all contents via any means necessary, and reminding him he hadn't eaten for – he checked his watch – a good fifteen hours. It was approaching midday. He found the Métro entrance, but found the very thought of the rattling carriages set his stomach churning again. He aimed north, the weak sun behind him, and sure enough, in five minutes he reached the river. The Left Bank was near-deserted; he found a pissoir and relieved himself despite the stench, ran to lean over the wall to face the river, then he turned right. Eventually he'd get back to St. Germain.  
He passed a café that was open. Coffee, yes, that might help. He parsed the middle-aged waitress's comment as 'Good night last night, then?' and agreed, yes, it had been. He'd _liked_ J-P and Edith, the crowd out by the Arc de Triomphe had been a great experience... Though if the French phrase held the same subtext as the English, then _not_ so much.  
Claudie, bloody Claudie. How did the woman make him feel like a petulant child again? He supposed he'd been fifteen to her nineteen when she'd first come over, which _was_ child versus adult while seventeen to twenty-one _wasn't_ , with the dividing line being that horrible December when he'd been in limbo from education, both parents coldly furious with him for bringing such nuisance, Ginty avoiding him as a substitute for dumping him properly, which he'd cared about, then, and Claudie, equally rejected, looking like she'd cared. About herself, he supposed, grimly. He wasn't supposed to be vulnerable to such things; away from boarding school, he'd never considered the risk could still be relevant, and he fumed at himself for being so bloody naive.  
Realising he was as cross at himself as at her did not improve his feelings towards her any, nor improve his hangover, and he ordered another coffee. 

A waitress his age smiled at him as she brought the small cup. He managed a bleary smile back. She was asking where he had been the night before – with friends, on the Champs-Elysées, then back at their flat – all easy to explain, no tricky verbs or moods – oh, she's trying to figure out if there was a girl...  
“Non. Pas de petite amie,” he said firmly, and downed his cup. “Please, another and a plain bun? Tomorrow, I return to England, I am here with friends-of-the-family, to improve my French...”  
  
She looked mildly disappointed, which pleased him, though actually that was a bit cruel. “If you are happy to chat away...?” he offered.  
  
He left a couple hours later, having reminded himself he _was_ capable of being a pleasant human being and could make small talk in French as easily as he could in English, possibly better, the weight of nerves for future encounters having been removed by knowing he was never going to see this girl again. Spirits revived, stomach settled by cheesy pastry, he whistled as he strolled back to the Dubois parents. One final evening, then a flight home next morning. Nothing to fear. Friends to see, day after tomorrow. Happy New Year to him.  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick returns to London, then brings his new friends to Mariot Chase.

His parents had warned him he'd have to make his own way home – _don't bring back too much wine!_ his father had joked, tediously – and he'd assured them he'd be fine. Heathrow even had a tube station now, how hard could it be? He'd been caught unawares by delays and the crowds, so by the time he'd reached the Arrivals Hall, felt painfully alone, with another hour or two before he could reach home and go to sleep. _And_ he had school tomorrow!"

He passed a pair of phone booths; best let his parents know he was on his way, so Ma could stop checking Teletext. Not wishing to wastefully hang up on the 10p remaining of his twenty, he steeled himself into dialling Erin's number.  


"Hi. It’s Patrick."  
"Hey. Survived France, then?" She sounded friendly, but suddenly he had to _know_ , did he still have a chance or had his absence over New Year blown it?  
"Yes. What did you do over New Year?"  
She sounded surprised – didn't she _get_ it? "Clubbing, and the party at Kathy's..." Was she letting him down gently? "It was OK, I _suppose_ ... See you at school tomorrow? That'll be nice..."  
He agreed, he hoped not over-enthusiastically, that would be nice. The pips went, and he was cut off. 

He dozed, fitfully, on the Piccadilly Line, waking as the crowds descended from the theatres, ensuring he didn’t fail to change at Leicester Square, and, emerging into the night at Hampstead, found his father waiting for him, leaning against the ox-blood tiles with a cigarette, a broad-shouldered Bogart.  
"Least I could do, leaving you to get this far alone," Mr Merrick said gruffly. "I'll take your case. Glad you turned up when you did – I swear men have been eyeing up a single chap, wondering if I might be enticed down the Heath, or..." He shuddered, in an unusual display of vulnerability.  
  
It was good to be home, even if Jessica was still at Meriot Chase until the weekend, to be cared for by old Ben and spoilt rotten by Nicola, most likely. Just enough time to look out books for the morrow, maybe read a bit – his parents hadn't recorded The Bill, what _was_ the point in the Betamax they'd acquired – though, actually, a bath and bed seemed the best option.  
"Oh, Pat!" His mother called up the stairs. "Your friend Simon called."  
Patrick froze. "Simon?"  
"Yes. Something about not needing to meet you tomorrow morning, could meet next Thursday instead and he'd buy you breakfast if he could see one of your books, he said you'd know what he was talking about."  
He supposed, it _was_ a first Thursday...  
"He left his number... You'd better call him tomorrow, if you don't see him at school." He wished Ma wasn't always schooling him on social niceties, but grateful for the clear permission for telecommunication.  
"OK, Ma, will do. Thanks for letting me know."  
  
The night seemed short when it was abruptly terminated by his alarm. Getting up in the dark was an unpleasant feature of January, and he lay in bed for an extra ten minutes before convincing himself to hurl his duvet crossly aside and face the cold. Though with no Jessica to see to, nor the bird centre to go to, he seemed to have plenty of spare time. Alighting from the bus at eight-twenty, he decided to treat himself to a mug of tea at Eyan's and warm himelf up.  
  
On entering, he was pleasantly surprised to see Andrew. " _You're_ early?"  
"Must be the lack of rush hour. Got on the bus about my usual time, and it fair rattled along, and then dumped me here about 10 minutes ago. I'm just glad this place was open. So, how was your Christmas? And France?"  
"All right, I suppose. Fairly quiet family Christmas, as these things go, and then Paris..." He shrugged. "Survived. The parents are lovely – excellent food, got me into watching cheesy French TV... Went out with the student daughter on New Year's... her friends were nice..."  
Peter would have questioned immediately, "And she wasn't?"; Andrew merely raised an eyebrow in recognition of the same point, and took another glug of tea, expectantly.  
"Oh... She lived with us for a year – sort of _au pair_ when we settled into Hampstead, except I was nearly fifteen, she was nineteen... Patronising doesn't _begin_ to cover it..."  
Andrew grimaced. "Isn't that supposed to be every straight boy's fantasy... the older French student… I suppose the reality is never the same..." Patrick said nothing, and didn't _feel_ like he was blushing, though wouldn't be surprised if Andrew was jumping onto correct conclusions as he changed the subject, "Pick up any useful Parisian phrases?"  
“Well, there was this drinking song...” He hummed, and Andrew nodded.  
"My exchange family taught me that one."  
“Yes. Culturally crucial, not so handy for A-level. Unless Candide _really_ picks up by the end.”  
“Would it spoil your experience terribly if I told you it didn't?”  
“Colour me unsurprised. You've done that essay for next week then?"  
"No! I wish. Just read ahead, in the hope it might help... We'd better go, once more into the breach and that..."  
Patrick agreed – he wanted to get to English early. Settle in, before Masey hit the New Year running. Erin might be there, too.  
  
He and Erin got no further than a quick nod-and-smile before Ms Masefield noted that Keiran and Sandra behind them completed her class, and launched into her introduction to Twelfth Night, no matter that the bell was due only six minutes later. She did at least sympathise with them to the extent of releasing the group three minutes early, and Patrick was most relieved when Erin, leaving the room alongside him, asked, "Are we still on for the weekend?" He nodded, enthusiastically. 

"What time are you heading – I haven't bought a train ticket yet? And Mum wants the exact address and phone number... I've got a brilliant dress, Kathy went shopping with me to the Stables..." In response to his blank look, she clarified, "The vintage-market end of Camden, up to Chalk Farm? Loads of antique shops and vintage clothes and second-hand bookshops... You'd love it – well, the books at least..."  
  
He grinned at her. "You'll have to show me, another weekend. In the corridor, he leant on the wall and scribbled down his parents' details in his jotter, tore out the page and handed it to her. “Here you go. Don't buy the ticket yet – there's a chance Ma is going down with my dad tonight or tomorrow morning, in which case the small car _might_ be available...”  
  
She looked at him, startled. “You can drive? I mean, you've got a licence?”  
He nodded. “Seventeen last March,” answering her actual concern.  
“And are you careful... I mean, mum frets, about boy racers and that.”  
“Very.”  
“They all say that,” she retorted.  
“I'm dead serious.” He winced. “When I say dead... I was the passenger... got thrown clear, somehow...” Patrick reached under his fringe and touched the scars he'd got from his gravel burn. At least his hair covered most of the remaining traces of _that_ incident – at some point he'd have to mention the cliff accident, given even T-shirts revealed raised keloids...  
She didn't say anything, but a few minutes later squeezed his hand briefly as they went to their separate History lessons. He was relieved – he couldn't have coped with audible sympathy.  
  
Andrew had also overheard the plan, nodded and confirmed he'd not go home after school on Friday, Edgware being so far, so they could escape London before the rush hour.  
"I warn you, the place is freezing, though, Erin, you'll be sharing a double bed with Kathy... We shifted the bed last week so unless there's _horrendous_ storms, it should be safe from where rain gets in..."  
"They suggested torrential rain by Sunday, on the weather. If it gets too bad, Kathy and I will just have to join you two!"  
Andrew released a small grin, Patrick did not.  
"No, you _won't!_ In cases of emergency, kipping on a sofa is _much_ to be preferred over young impressionable ladies left unchaperoned with the son of the house!" He was channelling his mother, but the archaic idea of chaperonage seemed suddenly so incongruous with his modern surroundings that he collapsed into giggles.  
“Don’t know what's so funny. I'm sure I could be an _excellent_ chaperone.” Andrew sniffed, mock-offended.  
He reminded Patrick of Lawrie. Two days, and his new life would be colliding horribly with too many family and his entire life to date. In short, the Marlows.  
*  
  
"The Fiesta?" his mother repeated? “I suppose so, I mean, we did put you on the insurance, and it might be helpful if you could run errands on Saturday, but the other parents might mind... Seventeen-year-old boys have a reputation, I'm afraid, no matter your personal experiences...”  
Patrick started to wish he hadn't mentioned it, but taking the car without asking was unconscionable, and while the four of them on the train appealed, he was aware that Kathy at least would prefer the coach at a quarter of the price, and thus a car trip made sense. And it was likely to be raining after school, Michael Fish had said.  
"Andrew said it was fine... I'll double-check with the others, but Kathy's brothers drive them about." Andrew hadn't, in fact, asked his parents, but given their relief at seeing him happy, acquiring friends, yet still achieving academically at his new school, he figured, rightly, they'd agree to anything that was legal.  
Kathy laughed, told him she'd pull the handbrake if he went over the speed limit, and if anything happened to her, he'd have to answer to Gran.  
“Not your mum?”  
“Her too, but Gran's the one you should be afraid of.”  
He'd met the tiny black-haired lady a few times briefly, and grasped that under her twinkling generosity she had a core of steel. Must have had, to come from South America to Britain in the Twenties, marry an Irishman, and raise a long family during the War which had widowed her...  
  
Erin's number was engaged, and he didn't really want to ask, anyway. His feeling was validated when Erin told him the next day that he'd better walk up to the door with Kathy, and park round the corner. "I didn't _lie_ , just didn't correct mum's assumption we were getting the train... I need to get your folks a present – wine or chocolate, do you think?"  
"I'd go for chocolates – Pa is a bit of a wine snob and we'll be well-catered, but we'll all want something to munch on when the lower ranks are expected to tidy up at the end of the night. Rather, staying up is tolerated as long as the place looks better in the morning... "  
"So who's that other than us? This Marlow bunch, right? I have to say, I'm looking forward to seeing this Ginty woman. Shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, horse-riding – sound like anyone you know?"  
Patrick winced as Erin described herself in terms of Ginty. She released a wide grin. “Just winding you up, dear. Sounded like she'll keep a low profile, right? I won't gloat – not _too_ much… Then there's the twins, fourth year? Lawrie-the-acting-one who will get trollied by eleven, and your friend Nick-not-Nicky who looked after the previous bird and likes family history. And used to worship the Navy and now doesn't?”  
“Oh, I think she's still got a thing for Nelson and Hornblower and derring-do on the high seas, but now realises the Falklands wasn't like that – their father was a commander at Stanley. And her brother Giles – eldest of the lot – he's now a Navy commodore and a prize tit. I felt sorry for her – she used to really dote on him, partly only seeing him rarely I guess, but then it turned out he didn't just have feet of clay, he's become a right arrogant tosser... Wouldn't worry, as a mere female he's unlikely to bother speaking to you... "  
She grinned.  
"No! Please don't take that as a challenge!"  
She put her arm round him, glad of the excuse. " _Relax!_ We'll all be on our bestest behaviour. Representing London and the whole of the comprehensive school system..."  
She _got_ it, which was one reason he liked her so much.  
"Who else is there?"  
“Peter – he's in between the twins and Ginty, god only knows how, _they're_ less than two years apart... Pete had a notion he might be his aunt's love-child or something, but apparently his oldest sisters – Karen and Rowan – put a _right_ flea in his ear and assured him, yes, his mother _had_ been continuously pregnant for three years, thanks to timing of their pa's shore leave... Anyway, he's a good chap – he paused, thinking of Peter shooting Jael and the window of the Shippen, and his inability to admit to fear putting himself and others in danger on cliffs and in boats, repeatedly, but _apart_ from all that, yes, Peter _was_ a decent sort – he's doing O's at Dartmouth, the naval college, but wants to get the hell away from there and do Engineering – he's always making things, designing; good artist, too, actually. Talks hind legs off donkeys, but don't let his Bertie Wooster foolery fool you – he's sharp as anything.  
Rowan's the one who quit school to run the farm. At seventeen. Scarily competent.”  
“Probably not underneath.”  
“I suppose, but she hides it damn well. Karen's the oldest after Giles – she quit Oxford to marry a lecturer in his forties...”  
“Wow...”  
“Who was a widower with three children...”  
“Getting a quick replacement?”  
“You'd think, but they seem oddly right now we're used to him. He's a bit – well, chippy, and his humour's so dry you could use it as a towel, but they've all settled down. Rose must be... thirteen now? She'll be the one trying to hide in the library while her father keeps forcing her to be sociable...” He grimaced.  
"Was that you, four years ago?" She was trying not to laugh. He acknowledged the similarity. "I _might_ have claimed my back hurt more than it did, recovering from the broken pelvis and all... Still, it got me two years off school and only repeating one of them, _result_.”  
Erin looked confused. “How d'you manage that - wasn't your resits a repeat as well?"  
“Old school did O and A-levels in November, two terms early, so after O's you started A-level, and were all set for Oxbridge entrance in Fourth Term, or Seventh Term in most places. Lovely, if you wanted to be a child prodigy! Or have a second go for Oxbridge. So my resits were only 6 months later – worked quite well, no long summer to forget everything in.”  
She nodded, guessing that the previous convalescence might have been where he'd read his ridiculously-high number of the classics.  
  
Andrew arrived, hefting a huge rucksack and a holdall. 

"What have you got in there?  
“Airbed, mostly. Sleeping bag, hot water bottle seeing as you said to, two changes of casual clothes, and then the formal dress, so that's extra shoes. Wine and chocs for your parental units, towel...  
"Why don't you change at mine after school," Kathy offered, "then at least you can leave your uniform and books there? Our bags won't be as bad."  
"You'll all be a bit cosy in the car,” Patrick remarked. “It's only sold as a four-seater, put it that way.”  
“No tape player?” 

“The radio works!”, he retorted defensively. “Not that that's likely to help much, unless you all like local stations. Radio One's a bit erratic near Colebridge.”  
  
Finally, Patrick escaped History, having wangled Wednesday as an extended homework deadline. He elbowed some shorter kids aside so as to squeeze onto a damp bus to Hampstead – _needs must_ – and returned to his empty home. His mother had left the car key on the table, with a note. "See you tonight. Don't forget to double-lock the door. Do NOT touch the video – I'm recording the last part of WoS." He was impressed Ma had mastered the machine, even with the incentive of Barbara Taylor Bradford, and decided to double-check. He added an extra ten minutes to the recording time, just in case.  
He changed into his new jeans, sweater and a favourite shirt, picked up his holdall, remaining coke back in his sock drawer, and decided not to give any money to Peter yet, but if asked, to mention he'd found someone to take at least some of it. And he'd better call Simon.  
A girl answered – Alex, he assumed, as she sounded rather like Erin. No, much posher. _Annabel’s_ set, he recalled. "I’m so sorry, Simon's at work – his new internship in the City, you know. _Yaa…_ Okey-dokey, I'll pass on the message: that you'll see him next Thursday. Bye now!” She sounded horribly cheerful, and either knew _exactly_ why Simon was meeting a school kid, or had never given the matter a thought. He wished he knew which.  
  
Spare torch in case the storms took the power out. Requisite numbers of pants, socks, dress shoes, hairspray, toothbrush, earplugs – did Andrew snore? Cummerbund, shirt and DJ, vests, trousers, spare clothes for tomorrow and Sunday.  
  
He grabbed a half-empty bottle of rum from the kitchen, and a packet of biscuits for the journey. Keep his strength up. Time to collide his two worlds...  
  
The recalcitrant automobile coughed only once before happily taking him to Kathy's. He abandoned the car on some cross-hatches just outside the door, causing a grumpy flat-cap to honk at him, but he knew the markings were only so the dustmen could access the communal bin store on Tuesdays, and ignored.  
"All set?"  
"Have fun, love. Take some photos for us – I've given her my camera," old Mrs Flanagan explained. "There's a new film in it, and I've put in some flash cubes."  
"Will do, Gran, and thanks for the dress!"  
Patrick blinked. "Oh, it's _fab_ , vintage 1920s, beads dangling all over... Gran hardly needed to alter it at all!"  
They mashed Andrew's army backpack into the boot – _seriously its OK, you can't crease a kilt_ \- along with extra booze and Kathy's bag, and, conscious of his passengers, he drove to Erin's, parking on the street before hers, just in case her mum was peering under the nets. Erin seemed to think such things possible. He suspected Mrs Connor had never heard of Ransome's mantra, "better drowned than duffers; if not duffers, won't drown", and would have been disgusted if she had.  
  
They left Andrew to guard the car, attempting to find a station that wasn't Radio Four and also scouring the road atlas for the best likely route. "You _like_ yomping around the countryside," Kathy had told him. 

"Doesn't mean I know anything about roads," he'd retorted.  
"You're in the front seat; deal with it."  
“Good point - I've never driven to get out of London before,” Patrick mentioned, to manage any expectations of correct navigation on his part.  
“That's not hard – go in a straight line, hit the M25, keep going...”  
“And go west until morning?”  
“Only if you want to go to Cornwall. Depressing shut-up B&Bs and a pervasive smell of fish. I'd much rather your shindig.”  
  
Kathy and Patrick wandered past privet hedges to Erin's house. He was suddenly nervous; technically, he supposed, this was a first date...  
  
Kathy ran ahead and pressed the doorbell. Could she tell he was bricking it? By the time he reached the doorstep, Erin herself was opening it and solving the conundrum of he should greet her by giving him a huge hug and a peck on the cheek. He reciprocated, then, noticing a figure hovering behind, reluctantly let her go. Time to be That Charming Son of an MP...  
"Good afternoon, Mrs Connor." He couldn't do call-me-Emma. "It's so kind of you, letting Erin come down for the annual ball so I've got more company my age." He wondered whether mentioning ‘ _it really helps, having beautiful girls around when my father's trying to impress the great and the good’_ would be seen as a compliment or creepy, felt probably both, decided silence was always the polite option, and tried to beam pleasantly. _Gormless._  
  
"My pleasure. I hope she can behave appropriately. Your father's a Conservative MP, did you say?"  
Ouch, on both counts. He knew Erin's parents supported all socialist causes and her father had stood to be a Labour councillor, without success. He really should look up what miners actually _did_ , some time. When they weren’t striking. _Snow White_ didn’t seem to match what that Scargill chap yakked on about.  
"Well, in rural areas personality still counts for more than party – it's more that no other party is _there_ , to put a candidate forward..."  
“Not very democratic, is it?” 

“They say its just that the democracy is in choosing the Tory candidate, rather than the main election, but I wouldn't know.” Desperate to escape, he checked his watch. “Oh, we must get going! Mustn't be late...”  
  
“Of course.”  
Back in the car, slightly disappointed that Erin was diagonally behind him and thus invisible in the rear view mirror, but unable to mention it – probably best for road safety – Erin's bag between the girls in the back, his own holdall under Andrew's legs, and Radio One’s Select-a-Disc playing pop classics on the radio, Patrick carefully released the clutch and proceeded westwards.  
  
The car, heavily laden, was never going to get above 60,which was not such a bad thing, and it had terrible acceleration at the best of times, which this drizzle and twilight drizzle _wasn't,_ so they settled in for a few hours.  
  
“When should we get there?” Kathy asked.  
Andrew answered, “Should take about 3 hours, add a couple stops, hope we avoid traffic...”  
  
“Ideally get there for eight and some dinner – no, nothing formal, just reheated stew or pie. Andrew, can you get the biscuits out and pass them round – give me one at the next light...”  
Once on the A40, Patrick relaxed slightly – until leaving the motorway, in a couple hours, his route was obvious. Windscreen wipers on low, headlights on, just trundle along.  
  
"Your mum doesn't get any more relaxed, does she," Kathy remarked to Erin.  
“’ _Will I behave, don't forget good posture, don't let anyone slip anything into my drink, don't drink too much’_... it's like being five and reminded every five minutes not to forget to say ‘ _thank you for having me_ ’... actually she reminded me about that yesterday, good grief…”  
“That'd be a no, then,” Andrew observed. “Just as well she didn't know we were driving down.” 

“Truth. Fortunately it hasn't occurred to her anyone in our year _could_ have a licence yet, seeing as no-one should have turned seventeen before September, and I'm sure as anything not mentioning it – not until near May and I can suggest lessons for my birthday. You guys had any yet?”  
“Hoping, for my birthday next month,” Andrew said. “Know any good instructors, Kathy?”  
“Bloke Dom had seemed OK. I want to book a block once it's light after school. Dom took me to the Safeway car park once and tried to give me a lesson, got as far as changing to second gear, but then my shoe slid off and got stuck under the brake. Which would have been OK if the daft sod hadn't grabbed the wheel... You know those giant beds of shrubbery, with kerbs round, they have in car parks? Yeah, and they have a spindly tree in the middle that looks all pathetic? Well, this one didn't have a tree any more once Dom's old Escort landed on top of it!”  
  
They stopped at all the services to stretch their legs, and around seven Patrick slowed and took a minor road off the Colebridge by-pass. He felt his home self glom onto him, _no_ , his new sociable maturity peeling off...  
  
He was glad of the dark, which it usually was when he drove in the vicinity of Meriot Chase. Night or sun he could handle, but not sunset sky, the bronze and pink and gold streaks too much like the dawn when Jukie had crashed. He slowed, looking for the white stones marking the driveway, and turned in, through the wrought-iron gates.  
  
“Whoa,” he heard Andrew breathe.  
"The rust doesn't show in the dark."  
"Even so."  
The tarmac ended and he parked a good few yards away from his father's Saab. "Here we go. Go through into the hall and drop your bags...” 

“A hall, Kathy told him severely, is about five feet across with a coat rack, not three sofas and a grand piano.”  
He knew she was joking. Sandra wouldn't have been.

“It's got the front door and other doors and the stairs in it, what do you expect? I doubt the pianos been tuned since they let me give up lessons when I was ten...”  
Mrs Merrick appeared. “You made it! I'm so glad. Please, all of you, let your families know you're here safely – there's a telephone here, and one in the kitchen. Come through, and then supper's ready to serve up.” She seemed relieved, inside that unflappable exterior – son and heir present and correct, _tick_ , not wrapped classmates round lamppost, _tick_.  
Erin went to the phone next to an oak settle. “Yes, Mum, we're all here. Mrs Merrick is here too. No, not yet – she wanted us to reassure you we hadn't dropped dead on the way and then have dinner. Supper. _Yes_ , I will. I'd better go, see you on Sunday, Mum.” She replaced the receiver. “Seriously, like I'd forget to give your mother her chocolates? Just give me a minute!” She looked round, and noticed Andrew and Kathy had left them. “Hey, we're all alone! There's a first...”  
She stepped towards him, slightly pinker than usual. Her arm embraced him, her chin rose to his, and he cottoned on just in time. It was a good first kiss, he felt, sadly calling it to an end a minute later, before anyone came to fetch them. The waiting might have made it better, but really, it was simply that they'd both actually _wanted_ it. With each other. He took her hand and led her into the kitchen.  
“This is the best room, in winter. The Aga keeps it warm.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the sixth of January.

“There’s steak pie, Pat, potatoes there, and veg in that dish. Is that enough for you, Erin? Could one of you open this wine – it's nothing special, just a _village_. Anthony's at his surgery and he warned me it would run late – lots of housing problems in Westbridge, I hear – so not expecting him back until ten at least. So I'm glad you’ve brought the Fiesta in case we needed anything – wouldn't like to have to take a bicycle or horse in this weather! No problems on the journey?”

Patrick rarely heard such long streams of speech from his mother. Anyone would think she was as nervous as he was!

“No, not at all. Slow but steady traffic.” He sat down to his heaped plateful, but given only a few biscuits since his sandwich lunch, he managed to demolish the lot.

“Good. Would anyone like some more – please, have as much as you like! The fridge and larder will be groaning tomorrow!” A pause. “Though there's some plum crumble for afters, and also a lemon meringue pie that was _meant_ to be for tomorrow but the meringue flopped.” She sighed. “I've still not mastered this oven.”

“Agas are supposed to be very tricky, aren't they? Excellent for slow cooking efficiently, but precision temperatures...” Erin grimaced, and Patrick was startled.  
Erin continued, gamely making conversation. “I've never used one, but I have enough problem at my cousin's house at Christmas, with electric rather than gas like home. Dad's a brilliant cook. but demands the right equipment and ingredients for everything.”

“He'd hate the Luke’s centre then, chucking in all the fresh ingredients they _have_ that day, on the one gas hob that burns all round.”  
His mother glanced at Patrick. “I didn't know you did cooking on your community service.”  
“Oh yes,” Andrew said. “Stalwart of the kitchen, he is, dishes up endless variants of stew to a horde of kids twice a week. Or bolognaise. ‘ _Edible, I suppose_ ’ according to the kids, which trust me is high praise!”  
“I'm impressed. That'll be excellent practice for university. Pat, why don't you show your friends to their rooms before pudding?”  
  
Suddenly shy, he nodded and led them up the front stairs. Erin traced the Grecian key pattern carved in the wall panels with her finger, while Kathy craned her neck to look at the portraits on the wall above. 

“You get a better view from the landing. That lot are the ones of various ancestors no-one wants to chuck out, but not look at either. Like those old rubbish photos, the only ones of your great-aunt, kind of thing, only taking up more space! My parents and the main guest rooms are that way – he gestured down a corridor to the left, that's Dad's study straight ahead, bathroom here on the right, check before having a bath that there'll be hot water, there probably won’t be without the immersion... we're down this way... They entered a narrow corridor panelled in dark brown oak, single file. “OK, Kathy, Erin, you're in here, the yellow room. Sorry about the brown ceiling, but where the bed is _should_ be fine... He went to check the bucket in the far corner wasn't getting full, and was relieved to see only a few drops despite the increasingly-torrential rain. “Sorry about the lack of furniture. There's extra blankets on that chest, and hangers on back of the door for your dresses...”

“We'll be fine,” Kathy assured him. “Bed looks comfy. Where are you guys?”  
“Next door.”  
They all trooped after him into his bedroom. Only his parents and the younger four Marlows had ever been in here, he realised. At least since he’d recovered from the cliff accident – he missed Jon, still. He tried to see the narrow room through his friends' eyes: a carved _prie-dieu_ , with rosary and triptych. at the far end, _embarrassing_ , but closer, just an ordinary single bed, cheerful duvet cover in primary geometric shapes, large oak wardrobe opposite, a desk with pictures of birds framed above, two rammed bookcases. Erin immediately turned her head to see what books he had; Andrew walked to the end of the room and tried to see out of the window.  
“Bit spartan, isn't it?” Kathy remarked.  
“I'm hardly here,” he objected. “Three days over Christmas, and knowing I had to make space for Andrew, I tidied up. Get your mattress out, it should fit between the bed and desk, but say if the chair needs moved...”  
Andrew began blowing up his bed, which kept him quiet for a while. “Glad it's a single,” he puffed. “I'm quite light-headed.” 

“Best not drink much tomorrow then, if you’re that much of a lightweight!” Kathy retorted.

“Ha, ha. I’ll be on my best behaviour tomorrow. Until midnight, anyway.”

Mrs Merrick showed them what was off limits in the pantry, and what they were most welcome to eat; still a satisfying selection, and she made her excuses. They sat at the kitchen farmhouse table – not lighting a fire anywhere else tonight – at the end by the Aga, working through the lemon meringue pie – admittedly Helena Merrick was correct; it _couldn’t_ be served in polite company, sticky goo splurging out explosively from the sides.

“And then you turn back into Cinderella? Or a Gremlin?”

“We’ll feed you more after midnight, don’t worry. We’re expected to make the place more presentable - basically tidy up so the cleaning team can whoosh in and whoosh out - but in exchange, everyone who helps can then hang around here and feast on the leftovers.”

“How onerous _is_ that?” Andrew, ever cautious.

“Depends. If Lawrie’s puked again, then _grim,_ but that’s what her elder siblings are for, if you ask me.” Not that he could see Ginty ever swabbing... “Otherwise, should be half an hour of effort and then stay up as long as anyone wants. You’ll all need hot water bottles and fortifying booze-and-or-cocoa, trust me! Speaking of which, have you all got hotties? I’ll put water on to heat…”

Back upstairs, beds warming with pyjamas wrapped around the hot bottles, Andrew and Kathy discreetly entered their rooms first. “I think we’ve been left alone on purpose,” Erin observed.

“Yes.” He didn’t miss _that_ cue, and took advantage of the moment. He could get used to this idea; kissing someone just because one wanted to kiss them. And being kissed back, firmly, welcoming a tongue, not just his one moving. That hadn’t happened before, but it was actually quite pleasant… “Best say goodnight. See you in the morning.”

He entered his room, suddenly so different from his near-monastic teenage years, with Andrew’s airbed covering much of the floor. He tiptoed round it so as to cast off his clothes onto his desk, his back to Andrew who was already in flannel pyjamas and bedsocks.

He heard a gasped, “’Kin’ell…  _ow_ . sorry, didn’t mean to say anything… rude...”

Definitely not lust, that tone of voice –  _thank goodness_ –  so: the scars. He’d got used to the texture of his back, and the strange pulling that parts of the skin made when his arms moved at certain angles. The head of PE at his day school had broken it to him that his chances of  swimming in the Olympics were scuppered; knowing he’d had none to start with, contented  in his solid-County-never-Regional standard, this fact had left him unmoved, which meant that once the blistering had settled down and his skin was, from a distance of ten feet or so, the expected colour, the landscape of drawn lines – a map of the Andes, he always thought – didn’t bother him particularly. Though of course  _touching_ his back might be different to looking – Claudie had probably been too drunk to notice, let alone care…

“It’s OK. Forgot you wouldn’t have seen it – joys of no PE in sixth form… It doesn’t hurt any more, just a bit stiff sometimes…”

“Was that the car accident?” 

“Oh no, _that_ was all pretty superficial.” He rubbed a few marks on his arm, instinctively flipped his long fringe behind his ear again. “This was when I fell off Leeper’s Bluff – cliffs - south of here. Broken lots-of-things, scraped two-thirds off my back off as you see, two years off school, first one not leaving this room much…”

“Whoa.” Andrew took it in, the impact of that accident on Patrick’s life. _Two years._ “It’s not ugly or anything, sort of... superhero, actually.”  To Patrick’s derisive noise, “ _Bond_ , or _Indiana Jones_ , not _Superman_ , you divot!”

“The name’s Merrick. Patrick Merrick. _Pleased to meet you, Mister MacDonald_ … that really should be a terrible double _entendre_ , but I can’t think of one right now…”

“Stop it!” Andrew put his head in his hands and groaned at the terrible humour. Patrick chuckled. “That your outfit for tomorrow?”  
“Mm. You did say, impossible to overdress?”

"Oh, absolutely! Quite aside from the ladies’ beads and sequins, veritable  _swarms_ of military officer braid will be descending upon us..."  
"You  _do_ know how to cater," Andrew quipped, then blushed and went quiet again.

“An officer for a gentleman? I _very_ much doubt it. Few enough bachelors and I can’t see any being  of the confirmed variety...”

A small head-tilt acknowledging the unspoken recognition, but then Andrew was confused by Patrick’s  sudden  scrunching up his lips, wincing and laughing simultaneously. “ _What?_ ”

“Just realised. There's the one very, _very_ eligible bachelor...”  
“ Who'zat?”   
“The heir to the Trennels estate. Eldest son of Commodore Marlow – so hefty Naval rank, just below Admiral – Lieutenant-Commander _Giles Marlow_...” He had to stifle another giggle, and gave up.   
“ Seriously, you think he might be...?”   
  
“I've no idea. Doubt it. Never occurred to me until this very moment, and believe me if it's true mine won't be the only flabber which couldn't be _more_ ghasted... Just, it makes sense: hardly ever returning home, doesn't seem to even _want_ to inherit, heard he was trying to get Rowan to. despite the entail. Pushing thirty; single, wealthy, and _not_ listening to Jane Austen… Can you find out? Is there like a handshake or something?”  
Andrew was trying to stick to impassive, but failed. “You asked for discreet; can't have it both ways. It's not his _hand_ that would need shaking...”   
  
Patrick bashed his head against a fist. “And I _swore_ the lot of you would be eminently respectable! I give up.  Don’t even _think_ about it! _See_ you in the morning.”

*  
  
At the kitchen table again, Patrick assured Erin that Jessica was fine in her snug stable, having checked on her as soon as he’d nervously awoken at six a.m. 

"What's the timetable for today?" she asked.  
"Hordes of infants from three, then the under-twelves get removed by six, for their din-dins. Buffet set up in the living room by seven-for-eight; band get going round eight-thirty in the ballroom. That's right, isn't it, Pa?  
Mr Merrick, mouth suddenly full of his toast and marmalade, nodded. "Indeed. I understand your mother has excelled herself with the size of the pass-the-parcel this year." He wiped stray crumbs from his chin, amused at his sedate wife's childish glee from ridiculous amounts of paper plus the odd sweet mixed with her mild forfeits. “I must go see a couple of constituents, but I'll be back for lunch. Pat, you and your pals can take coats and all this afternoon, can't you? Usher to toilets, that kind of thing, Should be about thirty children, including the Dodds.”  
  
Patrick nodded. "Sure, Pa."  
“Excellent. Other than that, relax and make sure you're all in fine fettle for Sir Roger de Coverley and his friends!”

His tone as he exited made clear this was a joke, but it was left to Kathy to ask Patrick, "Who's Sir Roger de Wotsit?"  
“No idea.”  
“Doesn't he usually come?”  
“Huh? No, Pa's _joking_ , sorry. Dad joke... the last dance... The last number is a round of Sir Roger, gets everyone on the dance floor, even if they're ninety-odd, and if you weren't ready to lie down and sleep like the dead before, you will be...”  
Andrew nodded. “Sort of the English version of Strip the Willow?”  
“Pretty much.”  
Erin and Kathy looked aghast. "You mean, like actual ballroom dancing? I've no idea how to waltz or foxtrot or anything! Do you, Erin?”

She shook her head.  
“Oh, don't worry, it's not ballroom! Strictly _country_ dancing...”  
“Like a ceilidh, only English.”  
“Like _that's_ any help,” Erin snapped back.  
“Is there a caller, Patrick?” 

“Oh yes. Just follow the instructions, step to the right, step to the left, first couple’s lady takes the arm of each man along the set, man sets to her, do-si-do...”  
Erin was giving him a hard stare. "That's lovely, _dear_ ," and the 'dear’ wasn't _only_ sarcastic, "but I think we need some instructions in English.”  
  
Andrew glanced up. “Come on, two pairs. Kathy, I'll hold you like this, one-and, two-and, three-four, you two behind us, OK, I'll go from Kathy's arm, to you, Erin, back to Kathy, next lady, Patrick, oi!”  
  
By the time they'd fallen over for a second time, Andrew shook his head. "It'll be fine once we get going, just copy everyone else. Really. Unless there's anyone else we can rope in to practice?”  
  
“Andrew, you're a genius! Pete should be desperate to escape the family by now...”  
“It's not ten yet!”  
“Your point?”  
Patrick twiddled the dial, only four digits, _so_ much easier on the finger. "Good morning! Hi Rowan, happy New Year. Is Peter there, and could you spare him?”  
They could all hear the yell for Peter. “No, _not_ a terrible emergency... Got friends here, and they want a dancing lesson... Erin, Kathy and Andrew. _Yes._ See you then.”  
  
Peter sidled through the back door an hour later. "Ah, peace and quiet! Told Mum I'd been begged for and then could stay and help this afternoon, so I've got penguin suit with for later. So go on, introduce us then. I've been hearing all about you...”  
“He _hasn't_.” Patrick blushed and stumbled through introductions, noticing Peter noting body language and deducing which girl he was close to.  
  
“So it's just the girls wanting a lesson? It really is easy to pick up. Let's start with an eightsome reel, pretend there's another four of you making a circle...” He stood at the piano, picking out chords, and under Andrew and Patrick’s steering, it got better.  
“What about Sir Roger?” Erin asked.  
“Dead simple, just don't trip over the crowds. But...”  
“What?”  
“Patrick, you _have_ to do Sir Roger with Nick! It’s your tradition!” Patrick had, indeed, enjoyed whirling Nicola around the previous year, she having more energy than most at the time, as he had done the couple years before...  
Patrick's heart sank. Peter was right, but how would Erin take it? Actually, looking at Erin, _no_. Time for new traditions, no, that would be counting unhatched chickens, but have to start somewhere... "I _don't._ "  
"You best tell her then. I'm not."  
"Suppose."  
“You’d _better._ So, it goes like this: ” Peter poked the piano more viciously, for once protective of his older-younger sister.”  
  
Erin collared Patrick later. "I really don't want to upset this Nick, you know. If this dance is so significant..."  
"It's _not_. OK, it is and it isn't. _Argh..._ Thing is, she's a great friend. I love her dearly. _But_ she's never going to be anything more, so doing anything that might get her thinking… You see? Again, I have to _not_ do it.” He sat down and looked up at her. “I look like the bastard either way, right?”  
“Mm,” Erin said, not being drawn in.  
“She was thirteen, for god's sake!”  
“I thought she’s like fifteen? Not so unreasonable.”  
“She is _now_. Sure, not unreasonable, but fifteen to seventeen – nearly eighteen even – is a lot different to thirteen and fifteen-sixteen... Even if I hadn't had her sister leaping at me – literally, on my tail all through the Hunt – Nick just wasn't on my radar! And, until, Ginty _was_ , I don't _think_ I was on hers – Nick's – we even slept in a haystack together out one night, when my bird flapped off and a storm came up... I may be obtuse with women but I'd _swear_ the uninterest was mutual...” 

“Ouch. Her first lust-object, whisked away by big sister...” Patrick's face burned, and Erin grinned at him. "Modesty is part of your charm."  
"Whatever you say, milady," _eugh,_ _much_ _too much like Rupert..._ "so what do I do now?"  
She considered. “She's not daft, right, so she's not going to seriously expect to slot in where big sis was, no matter what her subconscious says...” Erin was thoughtful, chin in hand – _if only Rodin had immemorialised her_ – “She doesn't want to be left out, look like a lemon, for the last dance, right? And not have to resort to a brother or aged uncle or young kid, yeah? Someone who looks respectable, possibly even flirtatious, can dance...”  
“Mmm. They're in rather short supply.”  
“Just as well we brought Andrew. He can do polite charm.” _And won’t go too far._  
  
“You're a mastermind!” He grabbed her in a bear-hug, suddenly light-hearted, and polka'd her round the room, ending in a delightful kiss, before having to push away encroaching memories of a similar dance. _Bloody Claudie_ , infecting his every move. Though he must have learnt _something_ , no, _those_ thoughts had to be barricaded _well_ away until family responsibilities were fulfilled, after this weekend was long over. Something to consider in the future, not yet; he wanted both the luxury of wanting _and_ of waiting, this time...  
  
Andrew was amenable to squiring this Nicola around the dance floor, understanding his remit of being a Nice Young Gent, purpose: escorting of maiden aunts and Marlovian sisters, as required. 

“Hi, Pete, you're back. Look, let's us get clean and nice-looking, and grab some lunch before the sprogs invade.”  
“Kay's mob are on their way – your ma put me on the phone; Fob being recalcitrant as usual. I persuaded her to join me in the pass-the-parcel...”  
“How does it feel, being her personal god?”  
Peter considered. “Completely natural, actually. The rest of you should copy. Sacrifices of money accepted in all major currencies...minor ones too, I'm sure...”  
“Sorry, all out of zlotys and Vietnamese dongs. What? It's the name of the currency!” Erin managed to avoid blushing: a skill Patrick admired in their English lessons when she decoded the hidden scurrilous meanings in any text.  
To Patrick, Peter commented, “Can see why you like her. Definitely an upgrade, if you don't mind me saying...”  
“I think _he_ does. Shut it, would you? For _some_ reason any reference to your family makes him skittish as a cat on ice...” Erin snapped back as Patrick felt a sudden need to exit the room for a moment.  
“Don't blame him! He told you about the Thuggery yet?”  
“Was that the fatal car crash?”  
“ _And_ the rest. I'll let him say. He was in the middle of it more, but could say it was our fault – me and Lawrie...”  
“The famous Nicola's twin sister?”  
“The very same. Harmless enough when not going on about her acting – the next Gielgud and Peggy Ashcroft in one, she is, if you believe _her_ , that is...”  
“Is she good?”  
“Yeah, guess so. Almost 100% convincing when she's acting Nick, which she's been doing all hols, and quite wearing _that’s_ been... Not enough to do Nick's share of mucking out and washing up, you understand...”  
Erin shared a conspiratorial laugh with Peter. She liked him, he liked this Nicola, it would be all right...  
His new girlfriend might be relaxing, Patrick thought upon his return, but _he_ certainly wasn't.  
*  
Hair brushed and appropriate smart-casual donned – _ever so_ _ironed-shirt and hairspray_ , Kathy explained later – they stocked up on lunch while various caterer types began to unload around them, directed by a housekeeper and Mrs Merrick. Decorations were in place; it was coming together. Patrick retrieved the round of crocks and cutlery to dump them in the sink, and _there_ , families starting to arrive. Time for duty.  
  
“Peter! They said you'd be here, but I wasn't sure.”  
“Of course I am,” Peter spoke fondly to a stolid child of around seven.  
Patrick gestured to an older girl, about twelve, who looked as if she'd much rather be anywhere else. "Hi, Rose. Do you want to grab anything from the library now, before your parents start looking for you? If you want a break, then the right corridor, third room is a good one – yellow room – any questions, you've been helping me and my school friends with decorations and that, OK?" The girl looked blank for a moment, then nodded vigorously, and ran away, plaits bobbing.  
"Sorry to offer up your bedroom like that, but she hates parties and her father just gets cross when she tries to escape, even though he clearly doesn't enjoy himself either, so I kind of figured I'd give her a bolt-hole…"  
“And your bedroom would be inappropriate. I get it. She's a bit like you, then?”  
Denial came to his lips, but then seeing Erin looking at him without judgement, nodded. "S’pose so. I've _mostly_ got better, give me something to do… _then_ , I can even do conversations, if pressed…"  
“Stalwart of Luke's kitchen rota, hearing it all, dispensing wisdom, _they_ say.”  
“ _Wisdom_?” And she cackled at his expression of sheer horror.

*

An hour later, they could take a break from coat-hanging and commiserating about the weather. A small child shot past, trying to run off with the pass-the-parcel. Erin and Patrick instinctively blocked its route, enabling Ann, panting behind, to grab the infant's frock and spin it – _her_ \- back towards the ballroom. She gave them a matey grin in thanks. It wasn’t an expression he could recall seeing on Ann before, whom he usually only saw in passing, Ann on her way to or from church, and thus unable to conceal the distaste the saved always had for the heathens. He suspected he'd betrayed a lot of that himself in the past, and thought contemptuously of his sixteen-year-old self – still older than the twins were now, though – in _that_ light, Lawrie seemed less of a pain, he thought indulgently.  
  
They entered a sea of torn paper that had taken over the ballroom. Erin started to pick some up, then turned awkwardly from side to side, wondering where to put it. "Thank you, I'll have that," - Ann swept up with a bin bag. "I was going to have a competition to see who could pick up the most paper – so prepare for squawks... Attention!"  
Patrick couldn’t help being impressed as a tide of children swept across, depositing paper scraps in Ann's bag, washed away again, and returned to her with less vigour, repeating twice more until the floor was clear. “Thank you all, and Melanie, that was a huge armful you had. Have a sticker. Now, we've just time for one more game... _Dead Lions_! Can you all lie down?”  
As each child lost the ability to stay still, most ran to their parent, as adults had crept in to line the walls. Others, not finding theirs, were called over by Kathy and were deep in conversation. Andrew stood next to Ann, helping point out squirming children, amusement evident on both their faces, and Erin joined them.  
  
She saw a curly-haired greying man enter, nod in relief to Ann, and concluded he must be the father of the child who was likely to win the game by having fallen asleep. Yes, there he was, fondly shaking her awake, and Ann telling her she'd won a lollipop. "Fob? Here you go."  
"As if she hasn't had enough sugar."  
"It's one night. It's not like you won't be brushing her teeth in a couple hours." Ann had learnt that generally, Edwin seemed to expect argument and respect those who talked back, up to a point.  
"I won't, actually. I'll take the trio home soon, but our Rose persuaded us she was responsible enough to babysit, so Katie and I could have the night out. _That's_ a point, where is Rose?"  
Remembering his words earlier, Erin ran to Patrick. "I'll go fetch Rose. Can you chat to her dad nicely while I do?"  
Unsure he could, Patrick tried to make it look like coincidence he was wandering in Edwin's direction. _Must be polite, have we ever been properly introduced, what's his surname again..._  
"Hello... Mr Dodd?"  
And was relieved when the angular shape muttered distractedly, "Seriously? Call me Edwin, for Christ's sake..."  
"Edwin. Sure… Um, Fob seemed to enjoy herself?"  
"Phoebe usually does." Patrick couldn't tell if that was a snide use of Fob's full name or just how Edwin _was_. Remembering Nicola's comments, he tried to give Edwin the benefit of the doubt.  
"Chas, too."  
"Yes." Was that a faint smile? It vanished immediately though, as Edwin tried to say lightly, the words treading on their feet, "Have you seen Rose?" _Ouch._ _Undertone, there, much?_  
Patrick froze. "Um... a bit ago... I think she finds large gatherings a bit much..." _Throw the ball into your opponents court._  
"And we don't?" Recognising a bid for commonality from a fellow Awkward Type, Patrick nodded. "She'll never get used to it without practice."  
Hoping Nick was right that Edwin respected reasoned contradictions, Patrick tossed back, "That can come when she's older and got over the worst of teenage discomfort, surely?"  
"She's only twelve!"  
"Girls start it all younger, don't they? Point still stands, though."  
"And get over it earlier, you reckon?"  
"I'm only guessing, but look at the Marlows – thirteen was when Lawrie and Nick found this shindig a right ordeal, twelve still children, fourteen – last year – they actually enjoyed themselves..." He left out Lawrie's drunkenness from the year before. And Gin, born wanting all eyes on her...  
"I'm not sure I want to use the Marlow clan as my baseline of female development." _There,_ definitely a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and a crinkling round the eyes – obvious, really, when you looked – and as Patrick laughed, Edwin's grin became briefly visible to the layman.  
Then back to the closed-in face. "Seriously, though, where is Rose? I checked the library already."  
"And would she have been in trouble if she'd been there?"  
A startled look. "No! Oh, I'd have grumbled, but like you say, force isn't going to improve her in these matters. Didn't with me... So, you know where she is, then?"  
Prevaricate... but God hates a hedger... "Mmm."  
"Is that mm-yes, or mm-no, or just plain gormlessness?" _Agitated_ , the man was.  
"Why are you so worried? It's not like she's going to have run away – and even if she's found a priest's hole we don’t actually have any traps-for-Puritan-heffalumps…?"  
"She has form." Oddly snippy.  
"Running away? Presumably coming back safe, tail between legs after a couple hours, like they do?" He'd never tried, himself, but he'd heard lots of infants did.  
"If you count being found in Oxford, hundred miles from home, in the company of a known child molesting murderer, calling him Uncle and trotting along to his house, but thankfully being found by your friend Nicola just outside, _safe_ , then yes." A strangled coughing noise. "I'm sorry… forget it..."  
  
The snappish voice again, but _strewth_ , understandable in those circs... He'd vaguely heard of that-time-Nicola-found-Rose-in-Oxford, but Nick hadn't spoken of it, no-one had ever mentioned _that_. No wonder Mister got tetchy about the girl's whereabouts – not Mister, Edwin… "I'm sorry."  
"No, really, I'm sorry. Don't mention that, please. She doesn't need to know what delights she missed out on."  
With a pang of sympathy, Patrick fessed up. "She's in one of the spare bedrooms. Oh, no, here she comes...be nice, won't you?"  
Rose, having been yanked out of her reading reverie by a panting urgent Erin, looked first bewildered, then nervous, upon seeing her father. Then she must have detected the fond look, as she relaxed and he put his arm round her. "Are you sure you're ready to handle the young ones, lass? Kay and I don't have to both go out tonight?"  
Did Rose detect her father's half-reluctance to attend a party? She did sound almost gleeful as she assured him she was _very_ happy to babysit Fob and Chas. "Sorry, Chas. Of course I meant child-sit... I'll be _fine_ , Dad."  
"Dad'll get all the nice can- _apes_ ," Chas grumbled. "Why can't I stay out late and have the grown-up eats?"  
"There have to be some compensations to enforced socialisation and growing-up," Edwin informed his son. "Besides, parties can be bearable, Rose. It's how I met Karen, and your mother, after all."  
It occurred to Patrick that Edwin must, at some point, have had the shock of finding his wife was dead – or was it ex-wife? Did that make a difference? One could quite see _that_ could make him nervous about the rest of his family, even before Rose had snuck off – how old would she have been? Ten? Younger than Kelly and her mates at Luke's... 

“Just a few more years, Chas. Nick and Lawrie got to stay once they were twelve.”

“That’s _ages._ A quarter of my life! No...” he caught sight of his father’s expression. “Oh, I know, it’s a quarter _once_ I am twelve, but a third now. One of _those_ problems.” As if to ensure Edwin didn’t ask him any more maths problems, Chas changed the subject. “Nacker used to fancy you..."   
"Really? How remarkably unhelpful of you to say so."  
  
"So's you know, she doesn't, any more. I hope you aren't toooooo disappointed?"  
From the mouths of babes... "I'll live with the disappointment," he replied solemnly, feeling intense relief. "You could tell her, I've found someone else now."  
Chas sniffed, attempting to look grown up and thus automatically more childish. "Won't be a patch on Nick."  
  
Patrick wondered if that were true, and considered that even if it were, which he didn’t think it was, on balance he'd take the lack of siblings and Erin's sniffy mother any time over any more dealings with the Marlows; in any case, Erin might seem shy and quiet but once you got to know her, there _was_ a lot inside. Unlike Ginty. He shivered – she'd probably be turning up – he'd been spared that last year – though last year, full of angst over his O-level results and future schooling. and Mrs Marlow's fury at Ginty's near-expulsion flowing coldly in all directions, letting him in for a good helping of backwash via his own mother, hadn't really been a merry social experience, even before that mad trip of Peter and Giles...   
  
"Penny for 'em?" 

Kathy was waving her hand in front of his face, Edwin and brood having taken their leave. "Nothing. Where's Erin? Probably time to get changed, if all the swarm of little darlings has been safely removed."  
Peter wandered up, proffering a plateful of cheese sandwiches and a bowl of sausages. "Sandwich, anyone? I suppose you have to have them, but everyone knows the kids will only eat the crisps and cake."  
"And the party rings. You know it's an event when there's party rings," Erin commented.  
"True, that. Though was rather hoping for cheese'n'pineapple hedgehog. You know, with toothpicks."  
"Ha, ha. We may be backwards in the country, Pete, but that might be a Seventies throwback too far."  
  
"It's a _classic_. Nowt wrong with 70s food. ‘Sides, Mrs Bertie's done us proper trifles. With glacé cherries and everything."  
  
“With proper jelly and custard?” Erin perked up, comically, like a golden cocker spaniel.  
“Don't know about jelly, but plenty of sherry...”  
“Ah, well. How long until people arrive, Patrick?”  
He shrugged. “Officially, seven-thirty-for-eight, but family and neighbours will wander in any time, so how's about we get changed now before getting trapped in conversation with the local worthies? And cousins. _And_ aunts...”  
  
Ann passed them, hastily explaining to Peter she would return to the family and be back later. "Always on the go, she is," Peter muttered. "Must be frightfully wearing, being her."  
  
They trooped upstairs, Peter joining them. Kathy waved the boys away as she and Erin entered their room, giggling. "We'll see you in half an hour, OK?"  
Patrick shrugged, leaving them both to their arcane practices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting there. Once Twelfth Night is over, it's mostly done and I hope to get back to a chapter every couple weeks. But if there's any late night conversations you'd like between our characters, for the next chapter only, I'll consider requests.
> 
> You never know, I might have mastered the formatting by the end. I've got the italics in; spacing between paragraphs can be sorted later.
> 
> Edited a para near the end on 1/2/19 because yet another re-read of RAH showed that the previous Twelfth Night bash was before that fateful boat trip, not after. I now have a *spreadsheet* of what various characters think of each other at this point...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twelfth Night party. What do the Marlows think of Patrick and his friends and vice versa, and how have the Marlows been getting along with each other over the last nearly-a-year since Run Away Home?
> 
> One could write a book just on that, so while I've kept it down to two chapters and in due course some of the musing should be included in other chapters, I'm posting the main chunk now.

 

Patrick joined Peter and Andrew in his own suddenly-crowded room. Andrew had unzipped his suit carrier and was hauling out an endless length of kiltage. Peter  attacked his bow tie, the thing having  decayed into wrinkled and floppy rather than merely louchely unstarched. 

 

“Not going for the military option, yourself?”

“Hell no! In case _he_ hasn’t told you,” - Peter glanced meaningfully at Patrick’s back - “I can’t _wait_ to escape the Navy and all  its works. Though thankfully Her Maj decided young kids being press-ganged was _way_ too early-century, so now, my options at least, it’s more like any boarding school,  just with _very_ strong pressure to join the Sea Cadets... But  mainly – _don’t_ tell my family this – the uniform for lower ranks makes you look daft; car salesman in a stupid hat! Very happy to look like a civilian, me. You, though? Are you actually Scottish – though looking at you, sorrow, family must’ve been...”

 

“Pale, freckly, ginger and gangly? Yes, obvs. Dad was from the West Coast, my mum near Glasgow. I was born in Edinburgh, but they moved south when I was a wee thing.”

 

Peter nodded, finished re-tying his tie, and steeled himself for another personal question. "Your mate Kathy. Any chance she's single?" Andrew decided to find his sporran difficult to fasten, rather than answer, so it was down to Patrick,  fiddling with a cuff-link:

  
"Erm.. No. Sorry. But don't mention it – his parents don't know. And wouldn't approve in the least." 

  
“Ah, well. How come? Not rich enough or don't like Irish or what?” 

  
“Not Muslim. Even if she were, she's not Bengali and couldn't enable a land-enhancing marriage...” 

  
“Urk. Not much she can do about that, is there? Is the chap worth it?” 

  
“Samir?” Patrick shrugged, looking at Andrew for confirmation, who copied him. “He's a good bloke, yeah. He's thinking about ditching his family and running away to university when the time comes. Poor sod. His folks would be lovely, if it weren't for that.”

  
Peter grimaced. "Sounds like the opposite of our Kay." He clarified for Andrew's benefit, "She ran _away_ from university and _acquired_ a family." Or was it, that she’d ditched her own? He wondered, again, what _had_ become of his bookish oldest sister's mind when she'd met Edwin. Even if he did have redeeming qualities when you got used to him, he didn't think he'd ever like  the chap much; probably mutual, despite Nick and him gelling. "No new talent, is what you're saying. Suppose I'll have to dance with Wendy Reynolds. _Again_."  


"Is that bad?" Andrew queried. 

  
Patrick couldn't hide a snigger. "I don't think Pete  _ suffers _ , just he doesn't get much choice as to whether he dies by suffocation under her breasts or not..." 

“An enthusiastic elephant,” Peter confirmed equably, not fearing the experience.

  
Hair sprayed and gelled to their satisfaction, Peter slipped downstairs to mingle and get first dibs on the canapés, while the other two knocked politely on the girls' door. 

  
"Just about done! Come in!" 

  
They obeyed Kathy's call, and saw her putting in more kirbygrips, holding her hair in a spiral on her head, Erin assisting. Erin too had hair that had exploded into huge vertical volume, but not like her clubbing look – _this_ was sleek, and clasped in to place. _Kristle from Dynasty_ , not _Desperately Seeking Susan_... He breathed a sigh of relief – they weren't going to show him up, his friends were doing him proud... He drew on the protective carapace of his dinner jacket, glad of its weight as well as the warmth , and beamed at the pair of them. "May we escort you two ladies?"   
  
With Erin on his arm, clearly approving of how he scrubbed up, he felt oddly confident. He could face Ginty – just as well, there she was, pretending not to see him, turning to his cousin Ronnie. And _there_ was Nicola. Similar cream to last year, the same  dress? Why not – it had been stunning after all – under a turquoise... shawl? There was probably a technical term for it. He tried to smile at her; she managed a milk-and-water version of same.   


"Is that her?  Nicola? " 

  
He nodded _yes_ to Erin's question. Her, but now , he'd grown up; suddenly the age gap yawned large again. Nick was _young –_ not the underage (he wasn’t _that_ shallow!); it was how she didn't argue with him, doted on him. Sheepishly, he realised that wasn't good for him, any more than Rosina's romance had been. It did rather clarify why he liked Erin – she  didn't take any of his crap, but bounced it vigorously back at him. He didn't need to be so careful talking to her, always on his guard to see if he'd offended – _she_ was able to stand up for herself; simply, more grown-up. He hoped he might be, too.   
  
"And is that one in the green the famous Ginty? Oh, no, that's Ann from earlier, isn't it?"  


He shook himself. "So it is. She's more flamboyant than ever I saw before." Ann had left school for nursing college, thoroughly enjoying applying her organisational and practical skills to something more relevant than Guides, efficiently adapting to the ward and equally efficiently arranging dates with a succession of nice young junior doctors and other staff, none of which she’d felt the need to mention to her family. The happiness and confidence she’d acquired with her siblings – starting after the Surfrider incident and ensuing rows – had multiplied since she’d left Kingscote in the summer and started at the Royal Free at the same time as Patrick had gone to Luke’s. 

 

Kathy and Andrew had gone on ahead, and were clearly nattering happily with Ann, and wasn't _that_ odd, that Ann would _natter_... It occurred to him that the Free was just the other side of Hampstead, really, not far, and the general suggestion of his parents, that he should invite her over for supper  one day, suddenly wasn’t so ridiculous, after all.  


“Go on, point Ginty out.” Her tone was teasing, but the demand serious.

  
"Can't see,” he lied. Only, with Erin looking for Marlows from this vantage point, he’d _have_ to indicate... “Oh, there she is. In the shiny blue, chattering to my cousin Ronnie... She _can't_ be interested, surely?" Ronnie wasn’t a bad bloke, he supposed, but lacking all gorm at twenty-five, _surely_ not? Besides, his ears stuck out of his ruddy face like trophy handles, and that hairline awfully receding.  


“He's getting her a drink.” 

 

“Ah.”    


“She's pretty.”    


“Never said she wasn't.” It occurred to him that even practical Erin wasn't immune to the female urge to indirectly seek compliments. “ _ You're _ beautiful.”    


Tension left her jaw –  _ test passed –  _ and she gave him a peck on the cheek before pulling his hand towards the drinks laid out on white-draped trestles in the hall.    
  
“Ah, Pat! And  you must be  Erin.  Y ou look lovely, my dear!”

  
Erin smiled, pleased-to-meet-you, at Anthony Merrick, not the older Patrick she'd expected – sandy yellow-brown hair, for starters, and built on stockier lines, those broad shoulders, filling out a perfectly-cut suit... Patrick's crow-black hair and angles were similar to his mother, she supposed. Mr Merrick was at his most genial, hosting his event – vital skills for becoming an MP, even here – but she rather felt neither Merrick man had any idea of their own attractiveness. Which was, in both cases, key to their charm.

 

“We'll be invaded properly over the next hour, and the help will need a hand circulating canapés, unless you take on the ferrying soaking cloaks and brollies. We're storing them down the back passage there, but if anyone wants to change footwear, could you point them somewhere? Excellent. I must say hello to Michael...” And he moved on.  
  
“Who he?”

  
“Michael? I have no idea.”

  
“And you care less.” She looped her arm in his and they entered the sparse throng in the hall, more people coming in from the rain. "May I take your coat?"   
  
Duty done for the moment, they perused the drinks selection. "Juice or wine?” he asked.

  
“One wine, then switch to juice, I think. But I'm partial to a bit of fizz... '

  
“A glass now, one at midnight? Sounds eminently reasonable.”

  
“And respectable! Got good impressions to make, here.”

  
“You're doing just fine.” And for once it was complete truth. And, as Ginty caught sight of them, startled – _had no-one told her? Probably n_ _ot_ _–_ he gave Erin his warmest smile and a peck on the cheek. “ _More_ than fine.”   
  
A wail from a squeeze-box, and a call from the ballroom. “They start with the simplest ones. The caller’ll make sure everyone knows what to do. Fancy a go?”

  
Figuring correctly that Patrick would far prefer the mathematically-pleasing structures of country dance to the chaos and social minefields of mingling at a buffet, Erin agreed.   
  
Three dances later, no significant injuries, Erin cried mercy and escaped in search of refreshment. Patrick, panting, sat himself down for a breather. A swirling dress and legs approached, and he glanced up, annoyed to be disturbed. Then he saw it was Nicola.   
  
"Next dance?" she queried.  


He composed himself back into That Pleasant Young Man. "Of course. Though I wouldn't mind a minute, before it starts."    


"Don't worry – they're waiting. How's things?" 

 

Too late she remembered his hatred of small talk, but he had something he needed to say, which conversely made saying it easy enough: "Good. My girlfriend's here, somewhere. Erin, her name is."    


"Ann said."   


It wasn't possible to detect what Nick might feel about this. Though if Ann had felt, it needed _saying..._   


"Is she at school with you, then?"    


"Yes, in my year."  _ Unlike  _ _you_ . "We have English and History together."    


A matey glance, a scurrilous aside behind a lifted desk lid – Nicola could see a mixed-sex classroom being fun; a good place to flirt. Perhaps she _might_ go to university, after all? She responded to him, flatly, eyes on the mantelpiece above his head, " _Ginty_ wants to read English. Or possibly History. No-one thinks she'd make Oxford, least of all her, so she'll probably end up in London. You really haven't changed your type, have you?   


He'd been expecting some sign of resentment from Nicola, but hadn't anticipated  _ this _ . He struggled to keep his expression impassive as he replied, tight-lipped, "They're really  _ very _ different. Did you want that dance?"    


A blow, removing all pleasure at dancing with Nicola. He'd been looking forward to that, dammit, but he'd still have to follow through; can’t renege… Nicola stood up, oddly pink: she wasn't going to _cry,_ could she? 

  
And then Nicola doubled over, and burst into laughter – hysterical, even, or just tipsy female…? 

  
“ _ What? _ Come on, the music's about to start!”

  
“Your _face_!” She laughed some more, until she managed to sit herself up again. “Don't flatter yourself! The whole family's shoved you firmly into Don't Go There territory …” later, he wondered how many of them that meant, which was _quite_ terrifying, “I wouldn't insult your girlfriend; I'm just winding you up! Though you might, at least, tell Gin a happy birthday – we all know you're well rid, but it must be a bit mouldy, sharing her day with this, and last year everyone forgetting, with everything… you know…”

  
He nodded, almost fainting in relief; he should, and it _would_ be for her, especially seeing as it had been the previous one when  he and Gin had got together. Though really, they _hadn't_ ; it had been _Rupert_ _-_ and- _Rosina's_ romance that had begun in the Merrick chapel, nothing to do with Patrick-and-Gin nor birthdays... _And_ he'd forgotten her birthday again the next year, even if for much better reasons. Did Gin know or guess about _Surfrider_ and all, he wondered? He wasn't sure if it would be better to know or not, in her shoes. And _still_ he wasn't sure if Nick _was_ fine, or just Nick being way-too-good both at teasing and doing-forced-cheerful;  a year ago, he’d have known she was joking, all of which made it a relief when the caller finally put down his pint and inflicted a Cumberland Square upon them.   
  
Erin reappeared, insistent on sitting out the next number, so Kathy enthusiastically bounced him in a polka before accepting the request to accompany a rather splendid braid-encrusted moustachioed major-type in a Dorset Round. She was doing great, he thought, charming the older men and even appearing to enjoy herself. With the background hubbub, even her London accent wouldn't be noticeable – and if any chaps _did_ look askance upon hearing her, they could damn well cope, he decided, suddenly protective. Erin always sounded more like he and the Marlows did, that regionless BBC voice, similarly Andrew, with a hint of Scotland from his parents; funny, really: sounding Scot tish was acceptable in 'polite company', whilst London, home of the Government and all, wasn't...   


They interspersed various matrons and commodores and middle-aged besuited locals into their dancing, and the evening progressed on, towards midnight. The caller raised toasts, finished glasses were hastily shoved onto mantels and into corners, and it was time to scrape everyone onto the dance floor – the Merrick parents; Mrs Marlow and one of his father’s political friends; Peter and yes, that was Wendy; goodness, Edwin and Karen, even, Edwin attempting to convey a large helping of irony he was sure Kay could see right through. A round of Sir Roger was going to ensure 1985 landed on them all with a vengeance. Ronnie had been collared by an elderly aunt, tall lace collar and pearls; Ginty couldn’t be seen.

 

Then Nick glommed onto him, that filmy shawl wrapping round him. “Go on, let’s.”

 

“No, I said before, I'm _not_ dancing with you! For god's sake, Nick, are you drunk or what? ”

  
Erin had been standing aside, letting Patrick fight his own battles, but she felt something needed to be said. "I thought it was Lawrie who got drunk at these bashes?" Patrick looked back at her, confused. "The twin sister? _Not_ Nicola…?"

  
Patrick looked back at Nicola, in Nicola's shimmery blue-green wrap. Her dress was not the creamy drapery Nicola had been so striking in, this year and last - and which he'd made that horrible bish about, trying to compliment her by saying she looked like Ginty - so either Nick had changed clothes or…

  
“Lawrie, what the hell? Just,  _ what _ ?”   


“I had to try, you don't know what you've done to Nick...”

  
“You're right. I don't.”

  
“Take your places, please. Another couple here, thank you. And off we go...”

 

Pointedly not looking back over his shoulder, Patrick steered Erin through the first measures, and caught sight of the real Nicola  leaping energetically past with Andrew,  both  looking reasonably content with life. Rowan and Giles were hamming it up, and his parents looked remarkably relaxed:  _ another one done, _ he thought his mother said. And, bloody Marlows aside, he decided he was most content too, and whirled Erin down the line of dancers with extra vigour.    
  
By the time Patrick escaped from a forest of still-damp coats and cloaks and umbrellas, and noticed Lawrie again, she was regaling Olly Reynolds and other locals with some story, lounging on the hall hearthrug, her raconteurship clearly way more important than mere tidying up. Giles poked at her with a foot. "Oi! Up and at it, Marlow! Don't want to outstay your welcome." He gave it up, clock ing that mere standing up would be an achievement for his babiest sis right then; best lest her stay  well  out of the way. 

 

Rowan rolled her eyes. "Patrick? Your ma's gone to bed and all the help are gone, so the more we do now, the happier they'll all be in the morning. Mrs Bertie and Doris may  _ say _ they're happy to clean up today, but that's have-to not want-to –  the happiness of our  house depends on keeping them actual-happy, not just bunging them extra sovereigns...”   
  
He agreed with her; Susan was the same, only much more forthright –  _ I'm doin' it for the cash, Master Merrick, not knobless obliggy. _ “Can you do a round-up of all the glasses you can find? Always a pile outside, full of fag-ends...”    
  
“Sure. Hey, Pete, wossface? Could you look out on the drive and round outside the ballroom, for glasses and anything else which shouldn't be there? I'll start shifting stuff into the kitchen.”    
  
“ _ Wossface _ ,” Andrew mock-grumbled, as he followed Peter into the night. The streams of freezing water falling out of the blackness hadn’t got any less heavy.

  
“Don't mind her. She's been learning from the local farmers, how to come across as an elderly salt-of-the-earth type. S'pose she  _ has _ to, to blend in and get any respect... She can suck her teeth and tut, too. Rather her than me! One good thing about it tipping it down tonight – there's hardly anything here. Let's go show willing and help with the washing-up, in the warm.”

  
“Plan.”  
  
But the butler sink was already under the tiller of Nicola's vigorous dishbrush. "Ta. Patrick, could you scrape, and do storing the leftovers in the pantry, you know where the stuff goes?” She flicked Andrew a tea-towel - “Can you dry?" - but failed to adjust for air resistance and it missed his hand; his tipsiness meant he couldn't recalculate promptly enough, and it landed on the burning gas hob behind him. 

  
“The name's Andrew,” he muttered, turning, but Patrick was there first. 

  
“When you've quite finished trying to set my manor on fire…" he admonished Nicola. "Why's the flame on anyway?”

  
Giles had been making hot toddies, Rowan explained. And indeed Giles himself returned, to introduce whisky and lemon to the proceedings. "Who else has a sore throat after all that? You, Rowley. Patrick? Andy?" 

  
Andrew shrugged, took a mugful.    


“Lawrie's loss.”    


"Hey, Patrick! Your friend Nick's passed out in the hall... Do you want to check she's OK? Oh.. Uh, no... Oh!" And Nicola patiently explained to Kathy that no, she wasn't seeing things, Lawrie was her identical twin, and had nicked her shawl earlier. Among other crimes against twinship of which she was  _ not _ going to speak.   


“Seems to be a thing, twins at the end of a family. My youngers are twins too, but not identical – Mike and Orla, so couldn't be!”    


Nicola perked up. “How many of you?”

  
“Two older brothers, me, then them two.  _ Quite _ enough, Mum says, but probably that's more Orla than the twin thing... You're youngest of eight, is that right?”    


“Mm,” Nicola replied, appreciating Kathy's lack of tedious 'eight, that's _so_ many! ’ “Me and Lawrie, she's the youngest by a whole twenty minutes, though look at her, _again_...”   


“The things she does to escape washing-up,” Rowan replied briskly. Her  _ don't worry, we'll stick her on the home rota for the next week _ was lost under Nicola's giggled, "I don't think Olly Reynolds would like to be called a  _ thing _ , exactly…"

  
Rowan, Giles and Patrick all rolled eyes to heaven. Nicola continued, "They're conscious, enough, just fast asleep, no use to man nor beast, so I left them."    


“No deck-swabbing needed?”    


“Thankfully, no. She's got better at that, at least.”

  
Erin returned with another armful of glasses. "Oh, here's where everyone is!" 

 

Peter, following her with consolidated plates of buffet which he laid upon the oaken farmhouse table, said, "Everyone sentient, yes. Actually that's harsh on Ann – she's driving people back around, in the Land Rover.  _ And _ grabbed Ginty to navigate, so they'll probably not be home until sunrise!” 

  
The others suppressed their amusement at the idea of Ginty navigating anywhere – she'd ditched Guides, as soon as she'd reached Upper Fourth and shopping trips became a much pleasanter way to escape the school grounds – and all deduced Ann's decision was tact-based; nothing to do with the girl's useful qualities. 

  
_ If indeed she had any _ , Patrick thought grimly, as he tipped some stray cocktail sausages into Bucket's bowl, and crisp crumbs into the box kept for contributions to the compost heap. 

  
A fresh sinkful of water brought up to temp with a kettle, pans  could be left  soaking, the crates for glasses refilled, to be put back into the far pantry, and a pile of food on the table; they all sat down with the mugs of hot drinks Rowan and Giles had made. Four on each side: Marlows versus Merrick and mates... 

  
Rowan happened-on-purpose to  stand up to stretch, sitting back down at the head of the table instead. Though as Andrew copied her, with the excuse that his long legs were better in the gentleman's end chair than on the pew-like settle, the impression of a rural University Challenge was only somewhat reduced.

  
“Good cheese, this,” commented Peter, plate full. “Goes well with the port. Hey, you girls look a bit cold – more hot chocolate?” Giles recognised his cue and returned to the stove.

 

"Rum in it? You brought some, didn't you Patrick?"    


“Yes. And I'll open the biscuits they brought.”    


Erin protested, "Those were supposed to be presents for your parents!"    


Peter laughed. “And they were, gratefully received,  _ tick _ in the box for nicely-brought up gels, their job done, now fair game for all the help late at night.”

  
"What he said," Patrick agreed. "Shortbread?"    


They tested rum both in and on the side of the hot chocolate, disagreed on which was better, but certainly the bottle emptied almost as fast as the boxes of biscuits and chocolates. 

  
“Bittermints! We didn't have any this year – what  _ were _ you thinking in your shopping, Rowan?”    
  
“That they aren't available anywhere nearer than Salisbury. Never seen in Westbridge, that's for sure. We don't live in London now, Gilly.”

  
Of course, Giles would remember Hampstead much better than the twins did, being already in his twenties when his womenfolk- plus -Peter had decamped permanently to Trennels.  What with being at sea half the time and in port most of the rest, he’d probably never been at Trennels for more than a couple months  _ in toto _ .

  
“No purveyors of Bendicks in port, Giles?” Though Peter should know, just as well.

  
Rowan coughed; Nicola came to the rescue. "Port Wade's a bit of a dive, really. They think Milk Tray is posh!”

  
“Oi! Milk Tray  _ is _ posh. You  _ dare _ tell my Gran it isn't! And Patrick, Erin and Andrew, knowing the terror of the elder Mrs Flanagan, laughed, as did Nicola and Peter, familiar with grannies’ stereotypical strange habits, even if Mme Orly was more likely to be  _ delivering _ Milk Tray than being the allegedly-glamorous recipient.

  
"Kathy's Gran lives with them - " Patrick started to explain.   


"Since Dad died, about 12 years ago..." 

  
"And she's – well, I would say battleaxe, if you can imagine a friendly doting battleaxe having a charming Spanish accent and being about four foot six..."    


" _Not_ Spanish. Dastardly conquistadors, she says. She's very clear on that, Gran."   


“Wonderful cook,” Andrew chipped in.

  
“And so kind – she gave Kathy that dress, and altered mine...”    
  
"I'd like to meet her," said Peter, and suddenly the awkwardness was gone.   
  
“I’m shattered,” Kathy put her elbows on the table and head in her hands. “That Sir Roger bloke's got a lot to answer for.”

 

“It’s the same dance as a Virginia Reel, really. Don’t know why it’s changed its name here. Strange that, south of the Border.”

 

“Virginia? No. Not what we want round here.” Nicola’s tone was harsh, and Patrick felt he had to be the reasonable one – she’d always be family, but he was the one she’d dumped…

 

“Come on! Ginty’s hardly bad enough for needing to remove her namesake from a dance!”

 

I  _ had _ wondered if Ginty was short for anything, Kathy mused. Thought it was one of those weird posh names. You know, like Rupert or Jago or Jonty…

 

_ Crispian. Rosina. _

 

“Come on, she’s your sister! If I can get over the girl, what’s your problem?”

 

And then there were the sideways glances, Nick-to-Rowan, Rowan-to-Giles, Peter-to-Nick, and Giles looking as impassive as if his hot toddy was the most interesting thing in the world.   
  


“You know,” Nicola ventured.

 

“That big row at Easter, still?”

 

“Ooh, do tell.” Kathy, eager for gossip, whether she’d met the subject of it or not.

 

“The Easter Rising?” Peter joked there, but then fell silent even before Kathy raised eyebrows at him.

 

“Really,  _ not _ funny.”

 

“Oh god,” Rowan groaned. “Where to even start?”


	16. Chapter 16

Rowan put her hands behind her head and sighed. “Gin was furious about us forgetting her birthday – that’s the girl hiding with friends to avoid the phone-calls bollocking, and totally forgetting to contact _any_ of us over the entirety of Christmas and New Year, you understand. Pots and kettles are of _very_ different materials, in her world… Anyway,” – she glared all round as if daring anyone to challenge the version of events she was about to share – “Pete and Giles went on a foolish boat trip to the Isle of Wight, ended up taking an extra two days to get home, giving the rest of us terrors, that we were going to have to break the news of their demises to Mum when she got back from visiting our not-actually-dying Grandmother in Paris, and then Gin decides it was all _Ann’s_ fault for not being in touch like usual. And if there’s one person whose fault it _wasn’t,_ it was Ann, who told Pete and Giles it was a bloody stupid idea!”

 

The mutinous expression of Giles and the surprise of Nicola’s sleepy face made clear to all that this story was skirting round most of the facts, but Peter nodded. “We used to generally ignore her being all over-responsible – Ann – but turned out, the girl actually had a point.”

 

Patrick adjusted himself to this simple explanation – which wasn’t actually _wrong –_ and confirmed, “So they went from having Ann, the left-out middle child -”

 

“She never liked horse-riding, or the farm, much -”

 

“- all devout Anglican, way too upright and moral – and then, to Ginty flouncing off, disgusted with muggins here already, but then taking out all her woes on the rest of them. Well, the ones who were around for it.”

 

“And Ann’s improved a lot. _Way_ less interfering and helpful-whether-you-like-or-not,” Peter added.

 

“To Lawrie’s disgust! No more bed-making or washing-up doing, any more. ‘You’re fifteen now,’ I heard Ann tell her!” Nicola grinned. “To be fair, Gin would probably have screamed even more at Giles, given the chance, only he wasn’t here until after Easter.”

 

Giles remained silent. To his professional masters, he was still seen as mature and capable, and naturally he inclined to seeing himself the same way, but Rowan – the only sibling whose opinion he cared about – couldn’t – _wouldn’t? -_ see him as that at all. Also. he couldn’t forget her cutting comment after she’d made clear she wanted to keep the farm: “It's not your bloody fallback option for when you've finally quit pissing about in boats.”

 

The trip shouldn’t have been like that. Giles recalled fondly the daring voyage he and Jon had gone on to the Scillies; he'd thought to give Peter equivalent adventure in his turn, but it was understatement to say it hadn't turned out the same; no hero-worship coming his way from Peter, and attempting to change to him loving maritime derring-do was _total_ misfire.

 

Peter, also quiet for once, felt ditching the Navy was part of his repentance, though Giles (despite or because of his concussion?) was still moronically determined to treat the whole thing as a jolly jape; meant to be good for their alliance, the boys together disdaining their six sisters, what ho!, but really, _was_ Giles actually a good officer? Peter couldn’t help some cynicism regarding Naval motivation – did they like Giles because he was willing to be expended, as per the Falklands thing? Rowan had taken the piss out of his Mentions no end _..._ _Did_ Giles care more about medals and excitement than his life expectancy? It was odd, no longer looking up to someone you’d spent your whole life as an inferior copy of…

 

Patrick eyed Giles. He’d felt they had become mates, last Christmas-and-New-Year, but then Giles’ casual comments about That Trip had rubbed him the wrong way and left him queasy. Rowan was nervy with every mention of boats or sailing, and would make snide comments about Giles and his ship – given Giles’ ridiculous inability to accept he’d made a ginormous bish, he and Rowan drifted apart, with Patrick finding himself unexpectedly on Rowan’s side. Of course, they’d both been around over the Easter and summer hols; Giles hadn't been, in the summer.

 

The Merricks hadn't let Patrick stay alone in Hampstead, _so_ unreasonable, after his O-level re-sits; instead Patrick had got to know Rowan slightly more, appreciating she liked some peace and quiet like he did, but unlike him, also intermittently craving company. He did quite _like_ having friends for company, he decided, just it was all a bit new and rather much, sometimes.

 

He poured out more rum all round – on the side, as everyone but Giles had requested. He recalled Rowan tetchily telling Giles before, “I don’t actually want whisky mac when I ask for whisky, you know. It’s not buying someone a drink if you buy them something different from what they wanted, so don’t expect me to be grateful.”

 

“Cheers,” Rowan told him, downing half the rum in one. Rowan accepted Patrick increasingly as a peaceful drinking companion, to share the odd woe with, that she hid from her farming mentors – _all friends of Jim Tranter afore you were born, Miss Rowan, we'll no' let him down. Or you, lass –_ both of them feeling the responsibility of their land. She’d pick him or Peter over Giles, now, for blokish company in a pub. Well, male company. She wasn’t sure artsy Patrick qualified as a ‘bloke’, exactly. Blokes had to drink pints of bitter and talk about football, both things she was pretty sure (correctly) that Patrick avoided.

 

Nicola sipped slowly, determined not to puke like Lawrie thankfully hadn’t this year. Her faith in Giles had been shaken by _Surfrider_ , never to recover, more because of Rowan’s shatterment than for herself. And that incident, despite a dozen years of stories, had made clear to her the Navy _wasn't_ something she wanted, what with sea-sickness and uniforms and blind adherence to authority – why had she ever, really? Miss Keith might have loved it, no tall poppies permitted. She saw, horribly, Giles as one of those wet Sixth types who _loved_ the school uniform and the rules and the confined space of the good ship Kingscote...

 

Giles, also sipping any sobriety away, had noticed on his Easter leave that he no longer had a small – _not so small –_ shadow eager for his opinion, even before she'd been the one to demand he _ask_ her and Rowan what they wanted to drink, not assume. Nicola knew Rowan preferred cider, unless with the older farmers, drinking unadulterated whisky to prove herself.   
  
Rowan and Nicola had always been a pair, especially at school, Nicola following in the footsteps of Rowan: class games captain, form captain, being mainly on the right side of Crommie, even; u nited against Lois and the more bonkers side of Keith. Rowan had felt guilty she was abandoning Nicola to it, especially after Jan had left. Ann was _something_ , but of course now it was just Ginty there; defending anyone other than herself just wasn't _in_ the gel.

 

Though the Nicola of Upper Fifth no longer needed defence, having been installed by a united Craven-and-Crommie as form prefect and deputy Games Captain. The pair had appealed to Miss Keith in words they knew would persuade – ‘boost _confidence_ , _neglected_ by family, _feared_ would have to leave, _credit_ to Kingscote in the league tables for _exams_ as well as for sport, _just_ the sort of _all-rounder_ we want to demonstrate school spirit... _Obviously_ we wouldn't be promoting her sister Virginia in any such way, but we understand there have been _tensions_ at home...’

 

‘Virginia stayed the entirety of the Christmas vac with the family of Monica Eliot, you know, and with Verity's people for the half-term following. She seems to have avoided the twins since returning; moving them all that term into general dormitories was probably fortuitous. Lawrence had even suggested Virginia might run away, which I put down to her high spirits and active imagination, but then there _were_ incidents of her staying out late, which gave me misgivings – Virginia certainly hasn't been a good influence on the twins, so with none of that long family watching over them any more, keeping the pair of them _busy_ would be a good idea.”

 

Miss Cromwell had mimed vomiting, the minute they’d been released from Miss Keith’s study.

 

“What about Lawrence?”, Keith had replied.

 

“We set Thalia Keith the chance to produce the School Play, under Dr Herrick and Miss Kempe’s direction, and suggest it’s _high_ time Lawrence prove why she holds a Prosser. Neither of those two is likely to score high academic honours; both want to be occupied with drama, so you'd agree, I'm sure, it’s preferable it were Shakespeare rather than classroom or family gossip.” And so it had happened – both twins – and Tim – became thoroughly occupied with sport-and-or-drama around their O-level work.

 

Back in the present, Nicola was making her own decision. It ought, really, to be tiny in comparison to Peter’s switch a year ago onto the pilot of a non-cadet stream at Dartmouth, catching up on Engineering and Design CSE’s as well as his O’s – let alone Ann’s to go to nursing college. Nicola wanted, despite its many flaws, to stay at Kingscote, do those Sixth things. And then, she was now thinking, _university_. ‘You've got the head for it,’ the Latimer had said, in her lacksidasical manner. ‘You're made to be a student,’ but, ever amiably bovine, the woman hadn’t explained what that _meant._

 

Maybe she should speak to Kay – but though Kay might have finished school with top honours, she’d bailed from Oxford eighteen months later. Perhaps Ann would be the best bet? – she’d done a year of Sixth, and at least _planned_ her leaving, unlike Rowan. While she got the impression Ann still didn’t trust her completely – Ann's “you didn’t just not tell me. You told me you weren’t going to,” circled in her ears nightly – Ann did realise the effect those fearful nights had had on Nick, with the result that they were now _more_ allied and Ginty _not_ _._ The Marie Dobson of the family, almost, Nicola mused, wondering what Marie had been like at the start of the Second, when by all accounts she’d been the reasonably popular form captain…

 

Nicola caught Patrick’s eye, both amused by the Giles:Rowan tension as they all slumped in tired, tipsy peace. Given a gap for awkwardness to pass, they might now become friends again, in time.

 

“So how are you liking living in London, now, Patrick? Looking after my old bedroom?”

 

Patrick made a generic agreeing mumble – he supposed the room _had_ been Giles's much longer than it had been his, but the man didn't need to sound so superior about it. Before he could form words, however, Peter burst in, " _Our_ old bedroom, thank you. You weren't even there, hardly, the last three years."

 

“Mine for years before that, though. You were just a Johnny-come-lately.”

 

Rowan intervened. “Though if you argue _that_ , then it was the downstairs back room that was yours and Kay's for years, all bookshelves and Airfix and none-may-enter, until they decided Kay was too old to share with you, and that was _ages_ after Ginty got promoted from the nursery to share with me and Ann. It was later when Kay and I took on that room and you and Pete moved up to the attic and reek of new paint. Does it still, Patrick?”

 

“Paint? No, not there. Ma had most of the ground floor done, though – _most_ modern peach...” Quadruple expressions of Marlovian disgust. “So you only really had that room for a couple years before graduating Dartmouth to the Navy? I've been there twice as long, then.” Petty, but pleasant to score the point.

 

Again, it was Rowan who replied, “Yes, once the attic was insulated and all, it was two and two and two and two. Like Noah's Ark and _just_ as noisy on the lower deck.”  
  
“It was the excrement that always bothered me about the Ark,” Andrew murmured, Nicola and Rowan chuckling agreement.  
  
“How did you arrange it for five, Kathy? Boys vs girls?” Nicola was curious.  
  
“Hm? Oh, pretty much. Though when Gran first moved in, it was her in the small room, Mum and the twins together, then me, Dom and Kev. Then me and the littl'uns for a bit, Mum had a bed in the lounge. Now Kev's basically moved out and Dom's not round much, Mike went in with the lads and Mum's in the big room with me and Orla. We can't all live in manor houses, you know!” She sighed. “I had a right strop at losing my own room, in a way only a four-year-old can... _As_ Kev reminds me, often as poss...”  
  
Nicola remained quiet, the concept of sharing a room with a parent being a hell of which she had never dreamt – yes, she'd take Lawrie over her mother, any day – maybe not Gin; Mum or Ann, much of a muchness; actually, Ann... University halls seemed to be single rooms, unless somewhere unambitious like New Hall... Careers advice from Redmond really was the most useless ever, pushing Durham or the all-girls colleges at Oxbridge – ‘less competitive, you see.’ Nicola was far from the only one feeling that if she couldn't be admitted by a proper college or university, she'd far rather not be there at all. "So much for dissuasion of Sapphistry," Miranda had observed, triggering much more understanding once Nicola had run-and-found-out from the dictionary.  
  
“I like your place, though,” Patrick said, offering up more bottles of spirits. “Warm, and friendly.”

  
“I'd do a lot for the warm,” Peter said.

  
“Me, too,” replied Andrew. No-one even considered making that into an entendre: _disappointing_ .   
  
“Is that why you opted out of the military bit at Dartmouth?” Erin asked.

  
More of those glances between the Marlows and Patrick. Peter broke the stiffening silence.

 

“That, and hating the Navy. And sailing. But I like the engineering side well enough.”   
  
“Is that not sacrilege, in your family?”

  
As if Giles wasn't there, Peter replied, “Who cares? Dad'll retire in a couple years. Giles can think what he wants. Even Nick doesn't dote on all officers like she used to -”

  
“Oi, I'm here, you know -”

  
“- finally grown up enough to tell them all where to stick it. Like any future war would be at sea, anyway! Aside from aircraft carriers, what do we need ships for? Blat the enemy from above... Ideally, have long range remote weaponry and don't need the Air Force, either.”  
  
“You really have no idea, do you?”  
  
“Well, big brother,” – Peter knocked back the glass of whisky in front of him; Nicola decided not to complain it had been hers – “I'd only been indoctrinated by you and Dad for thirteen years before Dartmouth, then they've had nearly four. If you and the Admiral and Commander Smithers and damn Foley couldn't convince me of the Navy life, maybe it really is, actually, a bit shit?”  
  
Giles pushed himself up from the table in fury – Peter was at the far end of the seat, with Nick in the way. Rowan stood up to stand in front of him. “Gilly, leave it. He's pissed. He's _not_ meant for the Navy and you know it.”  
  
“Yeah. Don't let him piss on your chips, mate,” Kathy attempted to calm the situation.  
  
Peter interrupted. “ _His_ chips is cooked already. Spending cuts and slowing career! And no chance to take over at home, with Dad coming and happy to hand on to Rowan...”  
  
“For Pete's sake, Pete!” The phrase rolled off Rowan's tongue with the smoothness of habit.  
  
“But seriously? Wotcha gonna do, Giles? Find yourself a nice wife and settle down in a base somewhere, training ratings? Oh, yeah, that's not working out, is it?”  
  
Giles managed to stick to words. “ _Someone’s_ got to be in charge when said idiot ratings can't tell the difference between the Isle of Wight and sodding _France_ ” – and _there_ it was again, all five of them looking anguished – was that a barb to be taken literally?  
  
“Cos that went so well, in charge, you unconscious for a day and a half. _In charge_ my arse.”  
  
“And whose f...”  
  
Rowan was, Nicola realised, absolutely furious as she turned round into Giles' face. "I _said_ , leave it. You too, Pete. Shut up and _stay_ shut.”  
  
“That would be a first,” Nicola giggled, jerked out of her sozzled sleepy silence. Peter jabbed a finger in her general direction and she slumped back into the pew again.  
  
“More cocoa, Gilly. Hop to it. Check on Lawrie while you're at it.”  
  
“There's blankets in the oak chest to the right of the fireplace,” Patrick added helpfully. “If you plonk one on each of Lawrie and Olly, they might stay asleep until morning.”  
  
Giles grunted and left the room.  
  
“ _What,_ ” Peter objected, two sisterly stares and three politer versions wearing down his vow of silence.  
  
“You know damn well what. Done and dusted, I _don't_ want to hear about it. _Ever_.” Nicola realised the odd sound wasn't a drunken slur but what in anyone else would be an obvious crack in the voice. Her turn, to change the subject:  
  
“I used to want to join the Navy – Wrens, I suppose, before I realised girls couldn't get anywhere near the interesting stuff, and did I really want to deal, if they did change their minds? Giles's had over a decade of being told only men can manage ships – no wonder he's struggling with the bright new future with automation and all. Though what my _school's_ excuse is, thinking trad humanities degrees are nice and suitable, ‘ _ooh yes, study what you enjoy_ , don't worry about jobs or salary, _so gauche_ , you'll get married and you won't need to worry – I don't know. What century are we in, again?”   
  
Kathy looked all around, all comedy: "Eighteenth, by the looks of things?"  
  
Nicola contradicted, "Seventeenth, more like, no, late sixteenth, this bit, isn't it?"  
  
Patrick roused himself. "This is the oldest part of the house, yeah. About fifteen-fifty – all the main parts, the front and both wings – were done by sixteen-hundred. Lots of remodelling later, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Kathy said.

  
“You can tell by the shape of the windows, there,” Andrew commented.

 

“And that hearth – they were more formal, and brick, after Elizabeth.”

Peter replied to her, formal manners again now, “You interested in architecture, Erin?”  
  
“A bit. This looks like the kitchens at Hampton Court, is all. I’m more into later social history, like, the changes after World War One, how manor houses dealt with the servant problem...”

 

“I do 16th-Century History with Patrick. You start looking at the illustrations in the books – suddenly _all_ the other chapters seem more exciting than the Tudor politics... Social history, attitudes, all that.”  
  
Nicola perked up, and Peter noticed. “Watch out, mate, Nick will be offering you our farm log and all the local archives if you're not careful... She'd _love_ someone else to yak on to...”   
  
“Yak, yourself.”

  
And the air between them was clear again. Though then: “Where's Giles _gone_?”, Patrick asked.

  
“I'll look.” Rowan's world-weary stride took her out of the kitchen, leaving the six teenagers.

  
“I'll do more cocoa,” Patrick offered, as host.  
  
“Good idea,” Erin replied. “Do you think there's more of those blankets you mentioned?”

  
“Mm? Dozens.”

“I'll fetch a load,” and Kathy went. She returned a moment later under a pile of tartan travel rugs, Rowan likewise, and dished them out.   
  
“My big brother is on your long sofa, snoring his head off. So I dumped blankets on him as well as the others. Sorry about that. I'm sure he'll slink off home come sunrise.”  
  
“That's not for another… five hours?”

“Nearly six, this time of year.” Rowan knew sunrise better than she'd ever thought; the silence of this season, all January, even; pale light rising in front of her as she went early to inspect her ewes, frozen dew glistening on the mud, fresh new buds appearing daily as the sun sleepily emerged each day – it was an unexpected pleasure of farming – though the next hour, cold and mucky, _wasn't_ . She blessed Nicola's thoughtful Christmas present of thermal socks, and sniffed again at the flowery soap set from Ginty – a pot of Swarfega would have been more like it...   
  
“That's fine. It won't be a problem if any of you stay for breakfast – seconds and thirds might be a bit scanty, but we should have enough milk...”  
  
“You could pop over and milk a cow,” Kathy suggested brightly.

  
“You could not. Ignorant townie youth! Passing on unpasteurised milk without a licence? MAFF would have me hung, drawn and quartered! No, not the mafia – quite – Min of Ag, Fish, 'n’ Food... Don't like it when TB infects city infants. I mean, I'm pretty sure my herd doesn't have TB, we passed routine testing last year, but it is around this part of the country, and the buggers take a decade to grow to the point you see symptoms...”  
  
Kathy got her head round the application of school biology lessons to modern food, and consumption, TB, the curse of so many heroines, being one and the same as tuberculosis -in- science.   
  
“Evap it is then, if you get that far. Or a ride to the garage outside Colebridge.”

  
“Cycling or hosses?” Erin enquired.

  
“Either, but in this weather, I'd go for a horse – much less slippery. Though durr – I've got a car!”  
  
Nicola glanced at Patrick. “You'd prefer a car to a horse?”  
  
Conscious he was switching away from her allegiance: “Well. In the pelting rain, no contest. And as transport. Couldn't have cantered up here last night on horseback, four of us! But of course in the summer, galloping around the hills -”

  
“- Where you couldn't take a car anyway -”

  
“- Or jumping – though not the Cut, I'll leave such equine showing-off to you -” 

“- Me too, never again -”

“then, there's nothing like getting your legs round horseflesh... As it were.” The Marlow trio noticed Patrick's friends not laughing at Patrick's accidental innuendo, though Andrew looked about to choke with the effort, and liked them for it; Patrick was scarlet enough as it was. He seemed less shy, now: an improvement over the churlishness of fifteen. Rowan supposed he’d never really had friends to practice teasing with, before.  
  
“What's the Cut?” Erin asked.

  
“Enormous ditch on the route of the local Hunt. You gallop down this broad field – usually a frozen slope – steep, it is - then there's a fence at the bottom, enormous trench - “

“Ditch. Four foot deep, just as wide, full of brambles all along -” Rowan corrected.

“on the other side – then shallow slope going up. And all but the bravest riders – and usually all of the horses with their sense, rider's horse-and-common or no – get two-thirds of the way down, suddenly go _not_ for me, thanks, and line up politely to trot through the gate at the side. Me, I'm definitely in that queue!”

“Best for your parents' blood pressure, I'm sure,” Erin murmured, hand squeezing his.  
  
“So, Hunt? You mean, like, fox-hunting?”  
  
Rowan set down her mug. “Yes. Fox, hunting. You've seen the protesters' stalls, right?”  
  
Kathy nodded, silent, realising she was about to be educated.  
  
“Yeah. So you're thinking, bunch of poshos on horses, yah-boo, chasing after a beautiful defenceless fox until he collapses with exhaustion and suffers a slow death in agony from being ripped up by dogs. Right?”  
  
“Well... Is it not? I thought, the controversy was over whether it had any point in keeping foxes away from farms – figured the dead fox was pretty much a given...”  
  
“The innocence of the Londoner! No, I'm not having a go – remember, we lived in Patrick's house until I was fifteen! Bit of a shock when we ended up moving here overnight and getting roped in by the locals, I tell you! But foxes. Lamb-killing, chicken-torturing bastards. They don't just kill to eat – they'll kill a pile of lambs or half a hen-house if they can, just leaving all the dead but one, traumatising ewes so they don't feed their young properly – dozy critters, ewes, anything upsets them, even a carrier bag caught on a fence – yeah, so foxes are bastards. So we invest in fencing and shoot as many as possible. Hunting and digging out cubs – that's practically grown foxes, not cute li’l’ fluffbundles – it's to make the fox know they've been rumbled and persuade them to piss off elsewhere. If you look at the routes, it's practically beating the bounds of local farms that have stock. Make the places reek of dogs, foxes slink off.”  
  
“But the hounds _do_ catch foxes, don't they?”

  
“Sure, about half the time. But only the elderly or injured ones. They've got no predators, any more. Should be wolves doing it, but in lieu of that, it's terriers, or whatever that rabble of woofs Mike Harrier has are. Battersea rejects, I suspect. I'm not saying it’s a pleasant death, but compared to slow lingering death by starvation or injury, its got to be better. But those are in a den, and hidden, and ‘natural’... The real complaint is posh people having fun, which it may well be in the suburbs, but not in rural areas where _everyone_ goes.”   
  
“True,” Patrick confirmed. “Round here, it’s everyone joining in if they can find a horse with four legs.”

“There's Neil Tranter and his mates on foot and BMXs, too,” Peter added.

  
“Exactly, but when do _they_ get into the newspapers when there's a picture of Boxing Day hunts? All idealised countryside is what you get fed, assuming the countryside is noticed at all...”

  
“Feel better for that rant, Ro?” Peter looked up at her cheekily.

“Hey, it was informative! She has a point, I mean foxes are becoming a right nuisance in London -”

“All the chicken shops and kebabs -” Erin explained.

“Yeah, so can you imagine urban hunting?”

“Kieran and Gary and mates on their bikes?”

“With air pistols?”

“Yeah! Chasing through the Abbeyard estate with their bulldoggy mutts! Trapping a fox behind the communal dustbins!”  
  
“What could _possibly_ go wrong?” Andrew found his voice.  
  
Kathy wasn't sure she was convinced – foxes up on the Heath were beautiful, even if the ones slinking down alleys behind shops were pretty mangy – but she wasn't going to fight over it. Gran was always reminding her that _she'd_ grown up eating capybara, a sort of giant guinea-pig.   
  
“Remember when Gin went all soppy and anti-hunting because she'd fallen in with that terrible Unity girl -”

“Poor her, with that name -”

  
“No excuse – and then the following year she was all desperate to show off on her new horse, hunting the best thing ever?”

  
“Wish I'd been locked in a cupboard, if it got _me_ a horse like Catkin,” Nicola complained.

  
“You know that was only Ma's excuse. It was basically because he came with Chocbar, buy the pair or not at all, and Ma was in one of her excited moods and couldn't resist. Her and money...”

  
“ _Tell_ me about it,” Nicola muttered darkly. 

Knowing the saga of that term when Nicola had thought she was going to have to leave Kingscote, Rowan went quiet as Peter continued, “And then of course last year – no, year before, now, Gin again thinks hunting is wonderful so she can spend more time with _Pat-wick_ ...”   
  
“Give me a break. Half of it was getting carried away with role-playing...”

  
“You did role-playing?” Kathy, Erin and Andrew exclaimed in unison.

  
“Were you an elf?” Erin asked, teasing.

  
“Certainly not. One-hundred percent human, thank you. Oh, OK... it was based on the Brontës - they had this fantasy world, all chivalry and spies...”

  
“Ye gods. How the other half live.” Kathy aped an upper-crust accent. “ _We_ base our D &D on the classics, don't you know?”

  
“Bloody stupid, is what it was,” Nicola said crossly.  
  
“True, that,” Rowan confirmed, giving Peter a hard stare. “No, I didn't partake, me having just taken on the farming gig. Anyway, I think I've sobered up enough to drive home, so if you two want a lift, it's time to go. Kick Giles out in the morning, would you?”  
  
“We'd better take Lal with us.”

  
Peter grimaced. “Do we have to? Don't want her puking over us in your Landy. You, rather – I'll go in the front.”

  
“You won't. Full of baler twine and lambing kit, it is.”

  
“She'll be OK.” And indeed, Nicola's poking led to Lawrie waking, being lifted to her feet by Peter with only mild grumbling, her grievance – that stories always had the overlooked friend ending up with the dashing hero, so Nick _ought_ to be with Patrick now, that's how narrative _worked –_ kept to an internal, out-of-date monologue. Lawrie was, this last year, closer to Tim and sometimes Pomona than Nicola – different dormitories helped after being turfed out of Sara Crewe – and still saw Nicola partly as a younger Nick, partly as her own alter ego, never really forced to do otherwise. Having seen Patrick ditch Nick’s friendship for a relationship with Ginty, she'd concluded the upset Nick _must_ want Patrick now, not having paid attention over the last six months; he was, now, reasonably decorative, dark to her fair, it was the _obvious_ dramatic solution, and half the romance had played out in her head during that evening, before she’d felt forced to make a move on Nicola’s behalf.

 

“Sure?”

 

“Oh yes,” Nick assured him. “She was vaguely sentient even at midnight, I hear. Bonkers child. Lucky she didn't try coming to tonight's hooli as a punk, all over orange dye and rips and safety pins.”

 

And Patrick grinned at her, yes, it could have been worse.   
  
A last shufty round for objects out of place, then at last, duty done, Patrick and his guests staggered up to bed. 

In their room, Kathy commented, "So. Those were the famous Marlows. What do you reckon, Erin?"

  
"Remarkably normal, though seem to have a bunch of skeletons jangling in closets _all_ over. Or in ship's lockers, maybe.”

  
“Yeah. It’s nice to visit, but the country life isn't for me, I'm sure. Also, I only had a bit of a chat, till she found out who I'd come with, but I can't help feeling a bit sorry for that Ginty girl.”

  
“Mm. Me, too. Well. Apart from anything else, she went out with Patrick! No, _really_. I get the distinct impression that he was a self-centred adolescent and he's finally turning into a decent human being, but I was lucky not to meet him a year or two ago... I suspect he'd say the same himself.”

  
“Yeah, well, I had to put up with you at school all through your acne and PMT and Craig...”

  
“Sez you! What _does_ Samir see...”

  
“You know, too?”

“I'm not blind, deaf or daft, you know. Who, else, 'too'?”

  
“Patrick guessed, from Samir practically being Gran's prodigal son and then asked for sure when we were trying to get a crew of us for this weekend. And Andrew hasn't _said_ ...” 

“He knows. He notices stuff.”

“S'pose he would, seeing as.”  
  
Meanwhile next door, "Nice bunch. Well, not Giles, bit stuffy, and didn't talk to that Ginty much – she _is_ pretty though, isn't she? Nick's twin Lawrie was entertainingly squiffy – she was doing great impressions which must have been much funnier if you knew who they were. Who's Mrs Culver?"  
  
_Responsible for death_ , Patrick bit back. "Mad old bint with a farm other side of Colebridge, she has it managed. Breeds racing pigeons and is _convinced_ her competitors cheat..."

  
“You know, its like stepping into episodes of the Archers round here. I’m expecting to meet Shula, or Nigel in his ice-cream van, any minute...”  
  
“And definite contenders for Mrs Grundy. I'm _not_ staying awake to discuss the Archers!” He'd done all his hosting, the sides hadn't descended into violence, though seriously, _Peter_ ... Time to collapse. 

*

 

  
“Come on, wakey-wakey!”

Patrick and Andrew groaned. “All right!” They flung on the nearest layers of clothes and shoes, and took the girls down to breakfast. _Way_ too cheerful for the time of day, they were. Only a neatly-folded rug on the sofa nearest the fireplace betrayed Giles’s departure.   
  
Mrs Merrick stirred two sugars into her strong coffee, a sure sign of overdoing it the night before, and indicated the cafetière.  
  
“Good morning, everybody. Thank you for helping clear up – the team coming to clean later will really appreciate it. I'm sorry the weather's no better – Bob has had to cancel coming over, so I'm afraid there's no Mass, unless you'd like to drive your friends to Westbridge?”  
  
They looked at each other, awkwardly. Andrew broke the silence.

“That's very kind, Mrs Merrick, but I'm not actually a Catholic. Even by birth.”

“Me neither,” Erin added.

“Oh. I'm terribly sorry. I'd assumed, the school...” She poured more coffee, dribbling it, and Patrick recognised his mother’s version of a tizz. “In that case, as you were, I'm sure you can all find something to do before heading back to London – best go just after lunch, Pat, then you won't have to drive in the dark.”  
  
“I'll go exercise Jessica – you guys could come with, if you don't mind being quiet at the back of the stables. Keep me awake. It's going to be even more of a squash on the way back, with her cage...”  
  
“Don't be silly, Pat! She can come in the estate with me. I'll be home late tonight.”  
  
“Hm. OK, but I'd best put her in the carrier for you. Yes, I'm _sure_ you could, Ma, without too much injury, but if she flapped off, you'd hate to have to tell me. And you, drive carefully!”  
  
“No way to do otherwise, in that Saab,” his mother retorted half-mournfully.  
  
“ _Good_. I know you wanted that nice sporty convertible, but seeing as I'd never have got insured...”  
  
“I'm saving the idea for when you're safely at university,” she confirmed, making a rare joke, only serious.  
  
His friends lay back on straw while he let Jessica round the barn. Really, he could let her fly now, but not in this weather, and he needed to test her, see her catching her own food, but, sentimental, he felt she was a London bird at heart.   
  
“Can we have the full guided tour, now?”

  
“Sure. It's not that big! Soggy fields and barns aside – you can see them, yonder. Still, let's pop into the chapel on the way back in.”

  
It was almost cosy, the chapel attached behind the dining room, and Patrick pointed out the carvings and murals. No stained glass, Erin mourned.

“Glass is a luxury, gel. Be glad you've got glass at all. Anyway, you've seen the rest of downstairs, so come to my room.”

  
“We've seen that, too,” Kathy shot back.  
  
“Oh no, you haven't! Any of you claustrophobic or anything?”

  
The panelling sliding sideways, just like in Enid Blyton, was the highlight of the trip, Kathy thought. The narrow passage led to a most satisfactory den, though thinking of _having_ to hide there froze Erin's spine. Something occurred to her. 

“You said about claustrophobia. Does that mean you never showed Ginty this?”  
  
“No, now you mention it. No, I never did.”  
Erin was slightly ashamed that this made her happy, but only slightly.   
  
A scavenged lunch and back towards London, all by unspoken agreement talking to Patrick to ensure he didn't fall asleep.

“And now, nothing to look forward to except weeks of cold and rain,” Patrick moaned, ignoring how glad he was to have Epiphany over.

“Spring’ll be here soon,” Erin reassured, not daring mention Valentine's Day yet.

“That, and Shrove Tuesday. Pancakes!”

“Not until practically mid-March, this year,” Andrew knocked Kathy's enthusiasm down.

“Well, there's the Luke's feast; that's in a couple weeks, always quite fun...”

 

“What’s that? No, don’t tell me now!”, as Patrick braked suddenly; what _was_ it about the North Circular that caused every other driver to suddenly lose all sense of self-preservation.

 

“Oh, all right. What about the next set book – choice of Wildfell Hall or something by Hardy. Pick your depressing pastoral preference.”

 

“Early _vuss_ late Victorian, I suppose,” Andrew said. “Masey would probably get more into Wildfell, I’m guessing – it’s said to be the first feminist novel, and I’d be happy never to read any Hardy again.”

 

“I’d be happy never to think about the Brontës again,” Patrick grunted, grinding gears as he changed lane.

 

“Just stick to the book and ignore them. There’s always analysis options.”

 

“Mm. Suppose.”

 

“Role-playing went that badly, did it? Told you, you should have been an elf.”

 

“You picturing him as Legolas, Erin?”

 

“Hardly. Legolas is fair. He’d have to be Feanor or Elrond. Gil-Galad, maybe.”

 

“Oh, the secret’s out now! Erin’s a Tolkien nerd...”

 

“Never read it, Andrew?”

 

“Does it count if I skipped all the elven singing?”

 

“No!”, Erin cried, against the others’ _yes._

 

“Are you one of those nutters who re-reads the Rings every year?”

 

Patrick managed a glance in the rear-view mirror, finally onto slow roads. “ _Elrond_. If you were Galadriel.” He concentrated on the new mini-roundabouts and pulled over near Kathy’s with considerable relief. “See you guys tomorrow.”

 

“Do you think I’m really sad, re-reading Tolkien?”

 

Patrick considered. “Could be worse. C.S. Lewis, maybe. No, not Narnia – everyone re-reads Narnia, don’t they? His other stuff. Besides, I’m not saying anyone’s thing is sad – you don’t call me bird-brain and we’ll call it quits?”

 

“Best park on this street so Mum doesn’t see the car.”

 

“I’ll carry your bag to the door, though. Got to convince her I’ve got some manners.”

 

“Proof you’re a chauvinist, more like. Or rude, if you didn’t. Which do you prefer?”

 

He didn’t reply, but heaved her bag out of the boot and walked with her to her house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, back in London and we can get back to some plot...


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at school for Spring Term. It's cold, but the Luke's feast cheers them up a bit.

 

Chapter 17   


“January. Cold and goes on forever,” Sandra moaned.

 

“Tell me about it. Why  _ do _ I go exercise gormless birds at ungodly hours, freezing all my bits off? Nothing to look forward to. You’d think they’d give us a mini-Christmas in late January, help get through the cold as well as the night. Why  _ is _ it always coldest in January, way after the shortest day, anyway?”

 

“It’s because of the heat capacity of the earth… oh, never mind!” 

 

Samir grinned as Kathy gave up; Patrick’s obtuseness for physics was a standing joke. “Is that why the Luke’s feast, then?”

 

“You wot? ” Andrew had dozed off on the way home, Patrick remembered. 

 

“Every year,  it’s  a big dinner in the Luke’s church hall. I think it’ s derived from the feasts of the Baptism and Presentation of Our Lord, merged into one for... dunno, cost-cutting reasons?  Call it  Candlemas, for you gentiles... Or because it’s on a Tuesday, I don’t know! Anyway, should be a week Tuesday – they’ll be looking for volunteers, go for it…”

 

“Long tables laid down the hall, the first years make decorations, you pretend it’s a Tudor banquet... It's kinda fun, in a hokey way. Good nosh, too. Some chef sorts it.”  


Ms Masefield explained later that day: “we celebrate with a big feast – it’s a free three-course meal for anyone from school who gets a ticket for them and their family. Lots of donations, a chef will come to supervise, he’s done it a few years now, but we'll need the usual crew as support; he'll bring a couple of his own kitchen minions but someone on site who knows where everything is…” She looked round expectantly for someone to pipe up.   
  
Realising he was being stared at by the rest of the class, Patrick protested, “I don’t know proper cheffy cooking! Basic student grub, that’s my limit. Don’t even know how to chop like Delia!”  
  
His teacher let the sea wash over his objections. “We know. That’s fine. Remember, making something out of the ingredients to hand, to serve a hundred at the same time – they won't have that skill, well, the student chefs won't. Alan could probably do it on a boat, arm tied behind his back.”   


Automatically, Patrick replied, “Ship, not boat...”    
  
She glanced at him. “I would suggest you acquire some tact before speaking, but given that you seem prone to silence and need to practice speaking, I suppose I can’t.”

 

He wasn’t sure whether that was a telling-off or not. Either way, he agreed amiably, of course he would work on the dinner.   
  
As soon as they escaped for lunch, Patrick pleaded with Erin. “How did yours truly get volunteered as kitchen staff? Cheffing is well beyond me! You’d be better – you know all the proper words and all...”

 

“You do fine when you’re in the kitchen.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s no  actual chef skills, you know – bash it into pieces and add to the pot is my speciality, I know nothing beyond variants of potatoes  à la  glop ...”  


“Don't worry.” Samir chipped in. “The chef guy brings a couple guys with – he has his own stoves so you won't be allowed to touch.  A ny sixth-formers will be assigned the basics – you know, see that vegetable, make into small bits. See soup, add sprig of parsley. And waitering.”  
  
“Kitchen porter, you mean.” Erin corrected. “No taking orders, you get what you get. I've only got a ticket once, though.”  
  
“Me too. First year, though I blagged a place last year when Sanj's sis couldn't make it. It was kind of nice, helped distract Mum – it was  when Gran had had to look after Aunt Sue for a few months, so wasn’t around to kick her up the arse, chaos at home – Kev and Dom went off the rails a bit and Orla copying, so a meal out together was a good break.”  
  
Patrick had his suspicions as to how the tickets might be allocated, perhaps with a few at random for plausible deniability, but said nothing.  
  
“It’ll be fine, Patrick. They won’t expect you to  know how to use knives properly or set a  _ mise en place _ or anything!”

 

“See, Erin, you know all the words!  W ay more about restaurant cooking than me! Cooking in general, actually. You’ll come with, pleeease?”  
  
“Sure, I guess. I never really thought, before, how the food turned up – vaguely thought they prepared it at the restaurant and just warmed it up.”  
  
Samir, with extended family in the restaurant trade, agreed. “They probably do, mostly. I'm guessing it's mostly schlepping back and forth. I’m sure Andrew and I can do step’n’fetchit.” 

 

“Sounds like a Dickens character. At least we escaped  _ him _ .”

 

“Patrick Merrick, you great big Philistine! Great Expectations is one of my favourite books ever!”

 

“Kathleen Flanagan, that’s fighting talk!”  He couldn’t even fake belligerence. “Or would be, if I could be bothered to put my tea down.”

 

“The stance of one with no leg to stand on. Erin, can’t you beat some sense into him?”

 

“Me? You think  _ I’ve _ got any influence on him! Might have to try that beating – isn’t it supposed to be the favoured vice of public - school  boys ? Oh, your  _ face! _ Panic ye not, Merrick...”

 

“ _ Ahem.  _ Meanwhile, I’ll get on with my essay, if no-one’s got any  _ sensible _ suggestions… Deadline’s tomorrow!” His friends moseyed off to Maths and Geography, and left him alone.

 

The cold snap showed no sign of easing.  Tuesday was also cold, and Wednesday more so. He vowed to get to the cafe on Thursday in plenty of time for a hot drink and to warm up, but the slippery roads meant traffic took much longer than usual. He was at the counter, deciding to speak to Sem in English, when the jangling bell heralded his customer’s arrival.   
  
“M orning, Simon. Tea?” 

  
“ I'll get it. Roll? Two bacon rolls, please. And one for yourself, sir.”

 

“Que?”

  
Patrick stumbled through an explanation, Sem finally grasped it was a pleasantry; eating bacon not required, and instead kept a pound of Simon's as intended.    


“Thank you. You are most kind.”    


“Just 'most kind' sounds better. You sound like a grovelling servant, otherwise.”    


Patrick translated Simon again – he  could do  that phrase –  _ finally _ Candide coming in useful. Sem nodded,  _ lesson taken _ .    


Simon passed Patrick his envelope just as Sem came over with their teas. Patrick shoved it into his bag – he wasn't paranoid, any longer. Only two more to go. 

 

He found his name, ‘Patrick M’, pre-populating the sign-up list outside Ms Masefield’s room, along with Erin C, Kathy F, and Sandra B. Wondering if all the initials were really necessary, he added Andrew and Samir with his biro, then McD, K, jabbing through the paper where he’d had to point the pen upwards. Then Sandra’s voice, “Nah, cross me off, would you? I’m working that night.”

 

“Oh? Shame.”

 

“Not so much. Tuesdays are dead peaceful in the pub; money for old rope, really. It’s when I do most of my reading.”

 

Patrick didn’t comment that a couple hours a week was far from adequate for A-level, not if you wanted a top grade. If Sanj hadn’t figured that out, it wasn’t his job. He had rather noticed, though, that the four of them – him, Erin, Kathy and Andrew – were breaking away from the pack, getting sixteen, seventeen-out-of-twenty for their essays, joking about authors, clearly having read multiple books by their required authors and others from the period. Every time there was a Shakespearian joke, which with Twelfth Night was almost every line, first Erin would suppress a chortle or groan, then he, Kathy and Andrew would catch on, likewise, Sanj would complain, “what?”, and Ms Masefield would explain the archaic meanings of ‘nothing’ or ‘country’ until Sanj groaned, the quiet trio of girls blushed, and then Keiran would complain that he didn’t get it, _again_.

 

Come the day of the feast, Patrick went over at lunchtime. Alan the chef, bristly salt-and-pepper hair, broad shouldered and bull-like – was carting in gas hobs and attaching huge blue cylinders to them. “Hi, you! Here to help? Great. Could you start unloading the crates with me, from my van? Ta, mate.”  
  
Alan continued talking as they returned to the kitchen with the first load, “Grand. Now, we'll be doing soup to start, which means all the veg not quite good enough to go with the main course, which is basically _coq au vin_ – and likewise, that hides a multitude of sins!. Could you pull out all the cabbage and cauli type veg from those sacks, cos they make soups cloudy? Nice looking leaves, beans and carrots stick over there for the main, cauli and cabbage too, and the elderly ones, ones with bad bits, pile up _there_. You can tell the difference?  Good lad. My sous-chefs should both be here soon, but Al said he wasn't well this morning, so we may just have Jimbo dragging along Maurice the new junior instead – I can just about trust him to peel a parsnip, shall we say?”  
  
And indeed Maurice, a curly-haired wiry brown shrimp scarcely older than Patrick, soon arrived, and made short work of the lifting. Patrick was about to head back to school for History, when Father Derek entered with a concerned expression.  
  
“Alan? Your front-of-house was on the phone. She says Jim is down with a vomiting bug, swears he wasn't drunk at all last night, it's real. He won't be able to make it. Do you have enough helpers? There's four more sixth-formers coming for four, who know their way round the kitchen...   
  
“Erin's a good cook,” Patrick offered. “Reads Larousse and Mrs Beeton for fun. Samir can do basic stuff. Andrew can... he can take orders. Who's the other one?”  
  
Father Derek consulted his rota. “Ade something.” He pronounced it 'aid'.  


“It’s ‘Addy’. No idea about him, he hasn't been here much when I am.”  
  
“OK. Worst case, there’s supermarkets and take-outs.” The chef wiped his hands on his apron and swore. “But Jim was supposed to be bringing the meat – I can't leave – you got a car, Derek?”  
  
The priest shook his head. “Can't drive, not since invalided out the Army. Sebastian doesn't. Father Mike… no, he’s away this week..”  
  
“When do you need it? I could go home after school and collect ours – where is it?”  
  
“It's my Hampstead branch.” He gave the name and street, and it dawned on Patrick that he was speaking to the head chef of a number of fine-dining establishments, of the kind his father attended with people, on expenses.  His parents hadn't, yet, seen fit to waste money on taking him there. Maybe, if he got spectacular A-levels... Suddenly awed, he asked, “It's just a Fiesta I’ve got, but that's round the corner from home. I mean, I don't have refrigeration or anything...”  
  
“Could you go now?” History could be missed, Patrick determined. “Get back about four? Would you? Save my bacon – literally! Ask for Charlotte, she'll make sure you've got everything you need. It's double yellows outside, but just go half up on the pavement and leave your hazards on.”  
  
An hour later, Patrick’s school uniform hastily swapped for cords, T-shirt and jumper, he parked, guiltily blocking the pavement as well as obstructing the one-way street. He was relieved when a woman rushed out immediately to confirm his identity, and called a human chain of chaps to fill his boot and back seat with plastic bags inside plastic crates. The smell was less than he'd feared. Some gallon jugs of cream and trays of eggs tied with string went in the front seat, which he kept eyeing nervously as he drove granny-like back to the church hall, avoiding all the road humps he could. He could swear the bloody things bred every time he took the car out. Worse than mini-roundabouts.  
  
Andrew was relieved to give up attempting to peel potatoes and help carry instead. Alan was politeness itself with the volunteers, as many as could fit in the kitchen, but Maurice was receiving an earful of French for burning some onions – _need to re-make the entire basis now,_ _brainless boy,_ Patrick grasped. Over the next hour, as ingredients filled pans and were ready to cook, Alan dashed between stoves looking increasingly agitated.  
  
Derek entered, superficially suave but clearly more troubled than earlier. “No agency staff available at such short notice, I'm afraid. I even offered to pay...”  
  
“Shit.” Alan bashed his huge spoon against the side of an enormous steel pot. There were five of them lined up – he supposed, even stew for two hundred, that was forty portions a pot – no, one would have to be for the potatoes...  
  
“Anyone know anyone local with actual cook experience? Not McDonald's, but a kebab shop would do? Has the certificate to use the gas under my insurance...”  
  
The teenagers glanced at each other. Kathy, fount of local wisdom, was shaking her head. "Kev's pub is just pop-and-ping food."

  
"Where did Sanj use to work?"  


"Pizza place, but that was just ready-made stuff shoved in an oven. And she won't be able to get out of work tonight."  


“What about the guys across the road? Sem's a master at breakfast orders, fifty baps filled quick as you like,  egg, bacon, sausage.. .”

  
Alan brightened. “That's the kind of guy!”

  
“Won't he be serving dinner?” Andrew objected.

  
“Not much. They close by six, remember. Dinner is just reheated lunch. Eyan could manage that,” Patrick explained. 

  
“Worth asking. OK mate, I'll come with you.” Samir whistled as he accompanied Patrick across the road. “Hi Eyan, Sem about? Wanted to ask him a favour.”

 

Eyan beamed at Samir, greeting him with a foreign phrase that Samir repeated back to him. “What is it?” 

  
Samir outlined the problem. Sem came over to listen, looked nervous as Eyan explained to him in their dialect, then attempting to persuade Eyan, who was less enthusiastic. Samir tried to get some words in edgeways, in an undertone, and Patrick couldn’t catch them.

 

“Tell him it's a great opportunity to meet a Michelin chef! Is it the not getting paid? I could pay,” Patrick offered, under his breath into the ear of Samir, who had clearly become the lead negotiator. 

 

Samir kicked Patrick’s foot,  hard, and wincing, Patrick understood to stay silent, even without Samir’s hissed, “ It's not about that!" 

 

Some discussion, pointing at watches. Eyan nodded, giving permission, and Sem agreed, now looking nervously excited.  


"He can come in half an hour. It is our pleasure." And another foreign word, repeated by a bowing Samir. As they left, Eyan called, “It will be good for Sem to practise English!”

 

Realising that Sem's fears centred on that, Patrick shouted back, " Don’t worry!  All chefs speak French in the kitchen!" 

 

And indeed, Sem raised his voice while hastily chopping more onions, "Au revoir!"   
  
“What was that all about? And what Eyan said to you?”

 

“What?  _ Zakat _ ? It's... one of the five Muslim duties. Giving to charity, you could say, but it's not just that, it's about everything you earn, everything you do, one-tenth of it should be given to the poor, who are all your brothers...”

 

“Like tithing?”

 

“That's the Christian paying-ten-percent to the Church, isn't it? Less organised, more personal, I think – you can give  _ zakat _ to anyone, one beggar might give it to another – and not just about money – even if you have no money at all, you should still think about what you can offer as  _ zakat. _ Which is why I had to shut you up when you suggested money – Eyan wouldn't ever let him off early just to  _ work _ , but to perform  _ zakat _ , it's a good thing for both of them...”

 

“Do you understand Arabic, then?”  
  
Samir laughed. “Yeah, classical! Not what they speak, more'n one word in fifty! Like Ancient versus modern Greek – Koranic Arabic might _just about_ get me about in Saudi, maybe, but _their_ dialect is right out the other side, mixed with French and African languages and god-knows-what. So a nice Muslim hello – _salaamat_ – and back to English to chat with them – or French in your case.”   
  
They strolled back to share the good news, and Samir asked, puzzled, "I thought your Bible was all about doing good deeds and how to live and that? Doesn't it explain? I know Jesus's bit gets edited way down in the Koran – important bloke but just a prophet – but we still get all the love-your-neighbour and all.”  
  
“Oof. Getting heavy, there.”

 

“From the lad expelled for being too into theology.  T he Bible's even in English; don't tell me you haven't read it.”

 

“Course! Did over two years of my verses-for-the-day! Though actually, it doesn't go into so much detail on how to live – you get that in the Old Testament, for the Jews, but the New is all about Jesus being a new covenant – agreement – with God, and him as an example, followed by a few bits of correspondence from Paul about whether people could still become Christians and expect the second coming after Jesus died. And  then  Revelation, which is just there to make people terrified of Hell, I think. And inspire horror movies… If you want to be told how to live, that's what the Church is for. Guided by the Pope and his delegate d authority, unless you aren't Catholic and then you and local leaders get to figure out morality yourselves, with the book.”

 

“Presumably the popes had to figure it out from the book too?”

 

“With some divine guidance... And back in the day there were more biblical books, but about AD 400,” _Athanaius’ letter of 367 followed by the Council of Rome, 382,_ but one didn't want to sound _too_ geeky, “all the bishops tossed out the ones they thought were too heretical or plain bonkers, which is a high bar actually – forget Revelation, I'd like to know what Habbakuk was on...”  
  
“Suddenly Mohammed's revelations and the satanic verses controversy seem eminently sensible.”  They stopped, to cross the road back to school. “I'll explain later! Alan, Sem is coming in thirty. He speaks fluent French... But his English isn't much.”  
  
“He's really eager, though!” Patrick felt the need to defend him. “Amazing short-order chef handling a dozen brickies' orders at once, even if it is mostly breakfasts...”  
  
“Right. OK. You lot crack on with the potatoes. I'll look after the meat until he gets here. May have a wee delay.”  
  
Sem arrived, panting, fifteen minutes later, having only stopped to put on a clean apron over his black jeans.  
  
“Bon soir. Vous parlez le français, hein?”

 

“Oui, chef.” Patrick got the impression Sem had been wanting to say that for years, refraining  with effort  from saluting. A couple more questions to establish Sem's experience, yes, a health and safety certificate on the wall across the road, he could fetch... Sem started frying bacon pieces to Alan's specification, added a tin of pearl onions, earned the nod to continue with the chicken pieces.  
  
Alan's posture relaxed slightly. Back with two qualified minions, even if one  _ was _ Maurice, this was no longer panic stations, just a busy shift. He inspected progress of all his workers, decided even Maurice couldn't destroy the soup, and gave orders to his  new  kitchen porters – Kathy, Samir and Andrew – on how to lay the tables and how to dish up. The main was soon delegated to Sem, who hung onto every word of commentary  and the tips on knife technique,  while Alan whisked custard and prepared fruit coulis for a variety of puddings - “donated by a bunch of mates, let their pastry chefs experiment a bit.”  
  
The tablecloths and banners were crêpe paper, the chairs the ones from the church, but the springtime decorations made the place a reasonable facsimile of a banqueting hall. And there was Sully, calling for order and saying Grace, for once to an audience actually thankful for what they were about to receive, as opposed to the mumble before school dinners.  
  
Finally  perching by the wall and supping  his soup - 'seasonal' vegetable stretched to its definitional limit –  Patrick admitted it was a good evening, though he was never going to work in catering – his blood pressure wouldn't stand for it. 

 

Erin had considered it. "I enjoy all the prep, quite, and producing a dish, but I'm not sure I'd want to do fifty of the same each night, and worry about whether I'd cut costs enough to make a profit.” 

 

He waved at Kelly and her mother, and at Danny who appeared to be alone – no, with a couple lads from his year, and even saying the odd word, that had to be a good sign.  
  
The ‘chicken chasseur’ - "it ain't, but if we call it  _ coq au vin _ the Muslims won't eat it, and at least the kids have heard of it off the school dinner menu", Alan clarified – was tasty, even if Maurice fretted and was correct it would have been better with another couple hours to simmer. The various tarts and pastries went down a treat, without much arguing between kids over the ones with most cream. Father Derek was called upon for a speech, mercifully short and light on theology, just thanking Alan and team; Alan spoke at  more  length about giving back to his community and God being in people, vital in these dark political times, and thanking Maurice and his temporary crew, especially Sem who had volunteered at the last minute and could have a job any time once he finished catering college... Andrew translated into Sem's ear as they stood at the back of the hall.  
  
Some singing, a bit of dancing, and Patrick and friends adjourned to Sem's cafe while Alan and Maurice dismantled their stoves  and the younger kids became ever more raucous . "I make tea, yes? Or, you buy beer next door, bring it here me." Able to take a hint, Patrick returned with a six-pack. 

 

"Cheers, Sem! You’re twitching!” Samir demonstrated. “What’s up?"  


"Cheers.”  Confidence boosted by the evening, Sem tried English. “Monsieur Alan, he take my number, said he can use me in his kitchen, but I should go to college first. But, I need also to work!" A dilemma.  


“You need  to look at  Floodlights magazine, for part-time courses.” Patrick translated Erin’s advice. “Look at Westminster College – founded by Escoffier, has this bargainacious restaurant near Victoria” - Patrick glossed that as  _ good value _ \- “the food is good because they aren't allowed to serve it if its not up to scratch, but  the  timing is  rather  random, especially early in the year...”

  
Still thoughtful, Sem downed his lager. “Please, say nothing to my uncle? Not college, not..." It was  S amir he  addressed , tapping the beer can. 

  
Samir's eyes widened. "Haram?  N ot my problem, mate." Sem understood the first word and the gist of the rest, and Samir felt the need to explain, "Haram is stuff that isn't halal – not permitted. Like pork, or alcohol, or relationships with non-Muslims..." Sem glanced at Kathy.  _ Rumbled.  _ "You say nothing to your uncle, too."  
  
“I say nothing. But Eyan, he like her and her family. Your grandmother?” Sem asked  Kathy.

  
“She doesn't mind. She likes Samir. But his parents mustn't know!”  


“ _ Very _ traditional,” Samir added. The translation was superfluous; Sem had grasped the situation immediately.  
  
The beer gone, they took their leave of Sem  and returned to clear-up after the feast . He must be only a couple years older than they, but working, not school, was a cultural gulf. Sandra and Kathy had found their friends who had left school to work had drifted away from them, in a way those who’d gone to college or other schools hadn’t, so much. 

  
Back carting crates between-two from the kitchen into Alan’s van, Patrick asked, “What d'you make of Alan, Samir?”

  
“Decent bloke, I thought. Probably ex-military, like Derek. Why?”

  
“Just wondering. I liked him, but then... Changing the name of the meal to hide the fact it has booze in, I thought that was a bit sneaky... Wondering what you thought?”

  
Samir dropped his end into the van, thankfully. “Cos I'm the spokesman for all us Muslims, right? No, it's OK... Well.  Seeing as you ask.  My take, and this is just me, right, is it was the pragmatic thing to do – need feed people, have food – there was bacon in it too, wasn't there? - you give the hungry food and they'd be daft not to eat it. There's exemptions in the hadith...  t hat's, like, the footnotes to the Koran written down over the years, rules for living.”

  
“Like the Jewish Talmud?”

  
“That kind of thing. So it says, booze and pig forbidden, but if you are starving and the only food around has pork in it, that's OK. It's a bit more complex on what to do if someone threatens to kill you if you don't. Martyrdom is good but not compulsory...”

  
“Nice to have the choice! I read once, in Judaism they ended up inventing statistics for this kind of problem – if there's ten butchers in town, nine are kosher and one isn't, and you find some meat...”

  
“Whoa. We didn't devote scholars, so much as someone wrote down anything Mohammed said on his days off from being divinely inspired. Anyway, _I_ think Alan did the right thing there, but then I didn't eat it either. Not so much the pork – OK, a bit that, but also saving my appetite for afters! If I'd been ravenous and not had two bowls of soup, I'd have had it. Technically, I bet the chicken stock in that soup wasn't halal either.”   
  
“Is that something about special slaughtering?”

  
“Mm. And prayers over it. Same as kosher, only more relaxed about  who does  the prayers, so all kosher meat is halal, but not vice versa. One reason my parents moved here – good kosher butchers in Golders – but they look funny at Muslims, so now they go to this terrifying place in Willesden, hacked up sheep and blood-spatter everywhere...”

  
“They eat halal meat all the time?”

  
“Well. They only  _ buy _ halal meat, but Dad would eat anything given to be polite –  unless it was actual pork or bacon done as that  _ ha ha, you ate pig _ joke... Mum's been known to have the odd McDonalds, she claims the chicken is halal. Me, I’ m not gonna die in a ditch over it, so I  don't  usually  eat pork or drink, but it's more of a cultural bonding thing – you give me shit for bein' brown, I'm going to be as brown as possible just to mess with you... Like my brother wearing a skullcap now and going mosque every week – it's not that he's  _ that  _ religious, but it's a fuck-you to whiteys... If you're gonna get followed round shops and refused service in places and all, wind up the bastards...  w hy not?”

  
“You don't.  The wind-up thing. ” 

  
“Nah, I just steal your women! Kathy-white-woman, I mean...  Next step of the dastardly takeover plan, get outstanding exam results and hopefully get into one of the top unis –  Cambridge or Imperial, I'm hoping. Though tell you what, you know when they put results day photos on the front of the paper, betcha they're  _ all  _ white and blonde...”   


“And girls.”  Patrick knew the type.   


“That too. Long hair, jumping in the air...”

  
“Best remind Erin to do her hair the night before.”

  
“Exactly. Me jumping in the air, it's a jumped-up  _ Paki. _ ” He spat the word. “Fergus called me, once. He's probably never heard of Bangladesh.  Some of the guys in Chemistry mutter, when they’re having a bad day, but it’s not like it was up to third year…  Sometimes I wish I was at school north of here,  where there’s loads of Asians, but then its easy to get trapped in that they-all-hate-us mindset, socialise with no one else, and then blame white guys when you can't get a job,  when actually it’s you've pissed years away down the mosque and got no qualifications... My parents may be strict, but they ain't wrong that education opens doors. So I’ve stayed at Luke’s. My cousin’s here too now, upper sixth.”

  
“Mehtab?”  


“Yeah, how did you know? She's right rebelling against her folks – they're pretty liberal, she's  plumped for hijab – headscarf, you know, and vegetarianism. While at the same time she's...” He tailed off. 

  
“Selling weed?”

  
“I guess everyone knows, then. Claims selling to infidels is just fine... Once said it was her duty to get non-brethren stoned and ripped off, but that was just bollocks – it's  _ purely _ for her clothes habit...”

  
“Does she come by Berlin, then?”  


“Hell no! Way too uncool, and everyone knows that's Simon Gorecki's manor. I know he's matey to us and buys drinks and that, but you  don’t want to  trust him!”

  
“Ah, I don't know. He just likes to chat, I think.”

  
“Maybe, but he sells nasty stuff.  _ Really _ bad, like. Not just a bit of casual weed.”   


Patrick, well aware that Simon mainly sold weed plus his own offerings, shrugged. “You're remarkably chatty tonight, for a sober chap.” 

  
“Ah well, see, I'm like you – soon as out of the spotlight the shyness goes and I ramble on... Kathy's probably been a good influence there!”

  
“How long have you been going out with Kathy?”  
  
Samir sighed. “About a year, now, properly. She's been a good friend since first year. Even my parents approve of her as a human being, but now I'm the age where I'm not supposed to hang out with unrelated girls – so Sohila and I go out more than we used to – she's upper sixth too – and Kathy allegedly is a friend of hers, living down the road and all. I mean, they get on... Anyway, assuming  _ she's _ patient,  _ and _ my dad doesn't find out, then I can move out to university and then...” He spread his hands, palms, up. “Well. Praise be to student grants. If I get disowned by the hypocritical 'traditional’ community and disinherited by Dad, so be it.” A wry grin. “At least Granny Flanagan would always take me in, whether I was still going out with Kathy or not...”

  
“She's said?”  


“Oh yes. She has a great fondness for those cast out by their families for making a love match and marrying beneath them – not that Kathy's  _ beneath _ , even according to the folks, just  _ different _ ...”

 

“Suppose she would.” 

 

“And of course, she's my shade of brown. ” Patrick was startled – he’d never really noticed a skin colour, under all the wrinkles. “Tell me. Catholicism – any Christian s – am I right that heaven is all about repenting for sins and having faith?”

  
“Pretty much. Catholicism says you're born with original sin, other creeds not so much.”  


“Hm. So, you can be a horrible person, repent on your deathbed, and still go to heaven?”  


“Allegedly. If you  _ truly _ repent. Though, how I square it to myself, anyone who was capable of being totally repentant wouldn't have been systematically plannedly bastardly in the first place, so it only works for one-offs. What do I know? But why? Isn't Islam all about professing faith too, there-is-no-god-but, is-his-prophet?”

  
“Yes, but that’s just the basic requirement. Otherwise what redeems you is merciful deeds. If your deed sheet isn't in positive balance come death, then doesn't matter how faithful you are.”

  
“Sounds remarkably reasonable, actually.”

  
“Me, too. There's a lot of scholars who swear Islam isn't a faith and its all built on logic, which is sort of attractive, who doesn't want to be called rational, but then the loudest ones claiming  _ that  _ are tossers like Dawutal Islami, so, y'know.”

  
“Who they?” 

  
“Not seen them in the High Street? S’pose they wouldn't bother talking to you... Those stalls, with all the bad photocopies.”

  
“Oh, yeah. The ones that aren't animal rights activists?”  
  
“That's them. Slightly better print, fewer pics of tortured bunnies, want sharia law across the world, that's the hands chopped off for theft, women can't go out unchaperoned, all that. Count me out! But I'm the sinner according to  _ them _ – they hate Western music and god  _ forbid _ there be dancing!”

  
“Apparently that's why Andrew’s dad came South.”

  
“What?” 

  
He's from the west coast of Scotland, or one of the islands. Anyway, his parents were Wee Frees – a bunch that split off from the Free Church of Scotland for not being glum and pious enough.  Or was it Wee Wee Frees? They split – you get it.  They take the day of rest so seriously, the swings in playgrounds get chained up where they're on the Council, and God forbid there be dancing or merriment...”

  
“He said, his mum wasn't allowed to wish anyone Merry Christmas as a child, as  _ merry _ implies drunkenness...”

  
“Yeah. Methodist, I think she was.”  He tried to summarise Wesleyan results. “More dedicated work ethic, not much more fun.”

  
“Lovely. What do you reckon? You're some sort of old-fashioned Catholic, right?”

  
“Well. The Pope is the head of the Catholic Church, so everything he says is infallible, until ten years back he decided to modernise the Church a lot. As I saw it, which was how my dad did,  _ either _ its a way of life worth following in all its bonkersness, or it isn't. You can't just chuck bits out. Though of course the Bible and other documents and the Church have all evolved over the years, so when I thought a bit more, I decided it was the fake mateyness and  _ ghastly _ holy pop – hippies and tambourines – that I couldn't hack. With a bit of the other, too. And a bit of the bonding with the secret-society priest coming to say Mass in our chapel...”

  
“ Thus  not having to go far on a Sunday morning?”   


“ _May_ -be.  That bonus more than c ancelled out by the cringe factor of knowing everyone there,  _ way _ too well. So now, more typical turn-up on Sundays, chill-out otherwise type, confess occasionally and hope some good deeds will stand me in good stead on the Day of Reckoning.…”  
  
“That’s what Kathy's gran says.  _ Do your best to be a good person and assuming there is a loving god, it should all come out in the wash. _ .. Her mum only converted to marry Kathy's dad; Gran didn't care.”   
  
“Gran's a fount of good sense.” 

  
“Yup. Is this the last  crate ? Thank god for that, man! I thought I was fit from the box-lifting in the shop, but guess not!”

  
“ We s hould have got Andrew to help. Oh well. You off home now?”

 

“Yeah. Well, no, actually. I'm stopping off at Kathy's to help her with maths –  _ she _ thinks, she helps me just as much – so if you run into my folks soon, do tell them what a late night it was...”  
  
“Practically  _ midnight _ by the time we'd cleaned up? Sure thing. See you tomorrow.” Patrick whistled as he drove home, feeling he'd found a new proper friend, not just acquaintance.   
  


Two mornings later, he was warming up early again with tea. “Looking chirpy, today, Sem?  _ Bother –  _ happy, bouncy...”

  
“ Oui,” Sem replied, not seeing the point of struggling in English to Patrick.   


“ Pourquoi?”   


“ Your chef friend, Alan, you know he is the owner of  this restaurant in Hampstead, he has an  _ Etoile Michelin _ ! And he says to me, to me, he wants me a shift a week, start learning, but I must go to the catering college. I have the informations, there is an evening and part-time course, very good, Alan says, he will  write a reference for me... I hope I get accepted...”   
  
“  Good luck! But pardon me for self-interest: I hope this doesn’t mean you won't be providing us with bacon rolls during our A-levels? Argh! That’s next school year, starting this September?”   
  
“ It is a couple afternoons and evenings, the course I have agreed with Eyan. I will be here most mornings. Alan say that too, it has more experienced people, this course, people there are already working, not just teenagers. I must continue saving...”  For the first time he could recall, Sem greeted customers voluntarily. “ Next? Good morning...”

 

Patrick stirred the tea. What  _ luck _ that he’d thought of asking Sem, and Samir had known how to convince Eyan, and  he’d not shoved his foot in it, and  now Sem could make a career.  Like the House that Jack built. Perhaps, as he’d told Samir, he  _ did _ still believe in a god?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a Forestian novel without discussion of religion! Any howling errors, please let me know, but it's along the lines of endless discussions I had with my varied Muslim friends at school and college.  
> The obvious obnoxious group to have stalls in the High Street advocating sharia would be al-Muhajaroun, but they only came to England in late 1986. Dawutal Islami were similar, from Bangladesh and Pakistan, though mainly active in East London at this time.
> 
> During all my time at school chapel services, I think they eventually did readings from every book of the bible, except poor old Habbakuk.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wet evening.

Two days later, Patrick yawned as he made his way to the centre after school. He'd got the gist of his missed history lesson from Andrew, Mr Evans had accepted his apologies but made clear homework extensions were not an option, so he'd stayed up late, reading, and would have to do that analysis tonight. Text analysis was always interesting, but really wasn't the sort of thing you could scribble in a hurry.  
  
Another yawn as he passed through the main hall. "Wotcha, bird-brain," commented Danny, almost friendly, but not. Father Mike – swish new haircut, again – clapped his hand on Patrick's shoulder, presumably intended for matey reassurance, but it stayed that little bit too long – he saw what Kelly meant. 

 

"All right, Danny boy," he retorted, not rising to the bait which Danny couldn't help trawling. And to prove to Father Mike he could cope admirably with such chaff, "Good to see you, shows you've got the sense to get out of the rain."  
  
Danny humphed and stomped back to the front room to make a half-hearted attempt at homework. Patrick had given Samir a heads-up on Danny, to try to avert incidents. After making it clear what was totally unacceptable – Patrick found it hard to believe chilled Samir had got Danny in a headlock, but was informed by half-a-dozen gleeful kids that he had, and had hissed in his ear, "call me a Paki again and my cousins'll be serving your bollocks on special in their curry house," - Danny did, a couple times a week, sit down and scribble something approximating required work. Sometimes, there was even a civil word in response to other kids, but nothing you could really class as conversation. Samir merely offered his homework advice service, getting on with his chemistry while he let Kathy attempt to engage the kid; Kathy's running river of conversation running up against Danny's carapace of hostility, car into brick wall, seemed to amuse him.  
  
Patrick's low energy decreased further upon seeing the mess in the kitchen. But there was one large pot available, he'd start some stew in that and then see if – he checked the rota – Ade or Selina - could attack that.  
  
By the time he had onions sweating – and celery, good tip from Alan, there – and was able to relax for a moment, he was startled to see Andrew come in.   
  
"Hallo! Didn't expect to see you here, not tonight." 

  
"You might have noticed from my hair, Watson, it is  _ tipping _ it down. I'm more seeking shelter from the rain than showing community spirit. Missed the bus,  thought I m ight as well come  join you for a bit, rather than freezing my bits off for half an hour. Can you put me to something useful so I don’t have to deal with our wayward youth?”

 

“No problem. Grunt work a-plenty!”

 

They wandered  into the corridor, where a delivery had arrived. Patrick set Andrew to shifting cans into the pantry, while he piled up fresh-ish veg to use that day.“Hiya, Danny,” Patrick mumbled in passing. “Hey. I’m playing table football next,” Danny responded with what in him passed for enthusiasm, a mock-disinterested civilised reply. Patrick nodded encouragingly and  returned to the kitchen. 

 

T ins safely on shelves or lined up neatly against the wall, Andrew returned. “Anything  else  I can do? Not in the mood for homework, right now..."  
  
"In  _ that _ case..." Patrick gestured to the sink with an elbow. 

 

Andrew whistled as he set to  tackling the washing-up left from lunchtime; presumably the usual workers had been distracted by some emergency. “Slaying the dragon, my dad always calls washing-up. It always sounded overkill, but he muttered about how you should see some student houses...this must be the sort of thing he meant!”  H e filled the sink with sudsy water and got stuck in.  
  
It wasn't a scenario he'd ever have imagined pre O-level, back when he'd scuttled home beetle-fast after lessons, and skived a fair few of those, balancing likely usefulness against chances of being run to ground in a corner. He'd imagined a school without bullying; of course he had, and a couple good throws when he'd been attacked one-on-one  _ had _ finally led most people to back off, but that hadn’t been until shortly before Mocks –  a year ago now. But  here,  a group of mates, who didn't mention it exactly, but they all  _ knew _ , that was unexpected. He supposed he should be thinking, like the avuncular chaps up on the Heath said, that it was a shame none of them... but no, it really wasn't. Some cautious explorations –  _ all _ of the Eight Ps, he'd learnt in  c adets at the Harp, being applied –  w ould be of no interest to Patrick or Samir, let alone the girls. Not worth mentioning,  ever . 

 

Some things just didn't need discussion, not for him. Jimmy Somerville he wasn't, though  _ so _ much gratitude to the man, releasing  _ that  _ album, last year... A quiet acceptance from his friends –  he rolled the R as the newly-relevant word passed through his brain –  and ignoring what it might mean, would do him nicely. He wasn't any too sure what the consequences should mean, himself, but that could wait for university. In the meantime: A-levels, that horrible Geography exercise, and, now, washing - up. Some pleasant thoughts –  in deference to Patrick's presence, when Peter Marlow came to mind, he thought only of the coincidence of them both being Sea Cadets, Peter born to the life and escaping it, him finding the canoe club at the Welsh Harp Reservoir a sanctuary, signing up to the  c adets merely as an alternative to Scouts, enabling Duke of Edinburgh expeditions and climbing and all. He was considering a canoe trip in the summer, perhaps down the Wye, but really it would be better  _ with _ someone –  begone,  _ foul  _ thoughts, just some company, help with lifting, Peter had built his own canoe, might be up for the rapids, was all. 

 

Patrick, too, maybe. Samir had already declined –  camping was a  _ white guy thing _ , he'd said, refusing any accommodation that wasn't a bed under a roof. Though it would be more accurate to put it down to Samir being a city boy –  he was angling  _ never _ to be dragged to  his folks in Sylhet, ever again.  _ Strange mould and much-too-ambitious cockroaches...  _   
  
  
Eventually the draining board was full and he gave himself a break. 

 

“You free a moment? Could you go find me a catering-size tin of tomatoes? I’ve never figured out how to make a stew taste good, without?”  
  
“Sure.” Andrew obligingly hopped down from the counter and disappeared. Seeing he was alone in the corridor, he rocked backwards and forwards, experimentally, on his new trainers. Teapotting, he always thought of it, recalling his mother's  p recise instructions on how to make tea, 'you've gotta back' ards'n'forrards it, five times at least'. Not a squeak –  these artificial rubber soles were pleasingly quiet.  
  
Entering the pantry silently, just to test he could, Andrew saw Father Mike and Danny. Another time-out  -and- calm-down for Danny, he assumed –  he'd better tell Patrick, see if he could find out what had happened.  S omewhat surprised –  over the last couple months, Danny hadn't been involved in more than scuffling, nothing so far violent as to isolate him, but then, it wouldn't take more than a snide remark to make the kid explode, even now.  
  
He was about to take a can from the stack just inside the door, and leave, when he realised that Father Mike was pushing Danny against the pantry shelves on the back wall. Danny's  upper  arms were being gripped, forcing him downwards. Father Mike –  fresh  from the barber , again –  shifted one hand so his forearm rested on Danny's, trapping the brat's arm under his, and stroked Danny's arm with the freed fingers. Danny appeared frozen. So was Andrew, the tableau seeming somehow familiar, until he clocked what was wrong with the priest's trousers. He took two steps, closer. Suddenly he was completely sure of what he was seeing, and he shouted, “You fucking  _ nonce _ ! Get off him, you perve!”  
  
Calmly, ignoring the cowering boy, Father Mike looked over his shoulder. He didn't even seem surprised, Andrew thought,  both affronted by that and scared rigid,  his  heartbeat racing. The priest dropped Danny, and smoothly stepped round the central stack of sacked potatoes towards Andrew. In a low tone, almost a whisper, Father Mike told him, “All right. I’ll leave him be. If you provide favours instead. You’d be better anyway, you know what you’re doing. Don’t deny it. I’ve  _ seen _ you.”  
  
“Seen me what?” Andrew tried blustering, heart sinking.  
  
“On the Heath. We know why you had so much… trouble... at your last school, don’t we? Now, my son, what you can do for others, you can do for me, unless of course you don’t mind Mr Sullivan hearing an update on your activities? Of course, it would be  _ unfortunate _ if the whole school were to find out, wouldn’t it?”  
  
Stunned, Andrew pushed him away, almost speechless. The chap was playing a perfect Hollywood villain, silky voice exacerbating the menace. He managed to gasp, “You’re a sick bastard!”  
  
“Hypocrisy is a sin, my boy. Those in glass houses…” Father Mike shook his head, mock-sadly. “You can’t hide from me, or from God. You’re the same as me...” The soft voice crawled into Andrew’s ears, and he felt itchy from it. “Trying to hide that you’re inclined the same way as me is destined to failure, my boy. Admit it.”  
  
Shaking, Andrew hotly denied that they had anything in common.  
  
“Oh, you're saying you  _ aren't _ gay?  _ Not _ a homosexual? Lying is a mortal sin, my boy.”  
  
Finally, Andrew found some sure ground. “I'm nothing like you!” It was a shout, and he didn't care.  
  
In the kitchen, Patrick wondered where his tomatoes were, and idly, where Danny was.  Must be in the front room, doing homework, assuming his turn on the table football had ended long ago.  
  
“You're ashamed of homosexual feelings, that's understandable, but lying to a priest...”  
  
Hearing a yell of incomprehensible words from the pantry, where Father Mike or a youth worker sometimes took Danny to calm down, Patrick felt it time to investigate, before anything else got smashed. He turned the hob down to a low simmer and started towards the pantry.  
  
But he stopped in the corridor when he heard voices, one raised, scared; one quiet and calm, seductive. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, though neither sounded like Danny.  
"I've got nothing to be ashamed of!" Falsetto, almost a squeal.  
  
The smooth voice: "Prove it then. You say gay,  _ I  _ don't believe you. Show me."  
  
Andrew was bouncing up and down on tiptoes, agitated, as Patrick walked up to the doorway. He’d been curious as to what Andrew, normally so laid back he was horizontal, was rowing with a priest about. Then Patrick had overheard some of Father Mike's last few words, and saw Danny behind them, sitting on the floor, knees to his chest. Patrick didn’t know what to say; if he should say anything at all,  or exit stage left,  but then Andrew yelled out in a near-sobbing voice:

  
“Yeah, I'll prove it!”  
  
Andrew wheeled on the spot and grabbed Patrick's arm. He muttered, "excuse me," as he swung Patrick round, and kissed him deeply.  
  
Patrick started to reciprocate out of habit, then remembered where he was  –  _ who _ he was with –  and put his hands up to stop Andrew advancing as he stepped away. Andrew seemed to hardly notice Patrick's presence nor what he'd just done, turning back to the priest.  
  
"Happy, now? I may be a poof but unlike you,  _ I'm _ not a fucking nonce. Get out!"  
  
Father Mike smiled, stiffly. "I don't think so. No-one will believe you, you know. They never do." Though, possibly calculating his chances, three on one, he strolled out, tweaking his spiky hair as he went.  
  
The stark silence in the room was eventually broken by Andrew. "I'm so,  _ so _ sorry, mate..."  
  
"It's OK. Oddly not-unpleasant..." He recalled his very similar reaction when Claudie had first grabbed him and done the same. "But if you don't mind, I'm  _ not _ inclined to a repeat..."  
  
A whimper in the corner reminded Patrick of why he'd come down in the first place, and  both older boys ran over to Danny.  
  
"You OK, mate?"  
  
The heavy breathing was more like dry sobbing, and it took a few goes to understand what Danny was saying. "Why me? Why always *me?"  
  
“It’s OK. OK. These things happen, not your fault." Patrick tried to sound reassuring, suspected he wasn't succeeding." Let’s get you some food, yeah?”  
Installed at the far end of  the kitchen counter , Danny tucked in, but unusually for him, lost his appetite after two bites. 

 

“ Want to go back to the hall? Or homework club?”

 

Not goin'back in there, Danny muttered. True enough, it was clear he'd been crying, and Lord only knew how many kids would be dying to have a go at him for it.  
  
Andrew and Patrick made eye contact over the kid's head, and soundlessly agreed.  
  
"Let's get you home," Patrick told him.  
  
"I don't wanna go home."  
  
Andrew snapped back, "You wanna stay here? After that... Shock? Ain't happening. Gotta figure out what we can do..."  
  
"You can't do nuffink. Wasn't my fault." And they realised what Danny was thinking.  
  
"No, you haven't done anything wrong! Well, not today.…not making you leave for that, just, you need a break. And something needs to be done about him..."  
  
To their surprise, Danny laughed, a new sight to both of them, cynical and snorting, but still, a laugh.  


"Yeah, right. They'll rotate him with another, until the next one gets caught, that's how it goes." He curled up again and went back to considering another forkful.   
  
"OK. Let's just get you fed. Once he got started, the bowl of stew went down Danny's throat almost unchewed. "You got breakfast at home?"  
  
Danny shrugged. "Dunno, do I?" 

 

Patrick looked to see if there was anyone who could take on the food –  Kathy could dish up, surely? Or Sal, even? 

  
Ade ran across the hall. "So sorry I'm late, ma n! You wouldn't believe, got paint stripper all over the place in the tech room,  all this acid, right, and Mr Brownie, he said... "    


“ Thank god you’re here. Look, we need to go, you’re in charge of dishing up, OK?”   


Miffed at being cut off in the middle of a great anecdote, Ade took up the ladle.  Kelly stopped complaining about Patrick’s going when she realised it would be easier for her to scam second and third helpings. Andrew grabbed a near-empty catering-size sack of cornflakes, a carton of UHT milk, and a loaf of bread while they were at it. A random jar of jam, not a wholesale huge one, he’d take that, too. Comfort eating. Sort of. Both Andrew and Patrick felt they needed to get Danny home, safe. Even – _especially_ –  if home wasn't.  
  
They ushered an uncomplaining Danny out of the building; he seemed, now, too tired to argue. The trio walked up towards Willesden, and past Kathy's block. A few minutes later Patrick realised they were entering the far end of the same estate, but the estate here wasn't like the Flanagan's courtyard, mainly clean and respectable if not smart - _this_ was the estates you saw on the news,  a burnt-out car, boarded-up windows, dirty nappies and who-knew-what on the lawn. _The dark side of the estate_ , Dom had called it, protesting that wasn't racist, the black families were fine, especially that lass Irie upstairs, according to Kev... The caretaker said the same: the north end was where all the crime was.  
  
Sunfield Court, the bashed steel plaque proclaimed. Sunlight wouldn't help it much, if at all. Danny had been silent for the whole journey, then, possibly gaining confidence on his home turf, he turned back to face them.  
  
"You’re a poof, then, Andy?"  
  
Patrick groaned inwardly. Father Mike had been right about one thing – Danny really _didn't_ know how to engage with anyone except by antagonism... And if Danny now wanted to avoid Andrew as well, he wouldn't be getting anything from the Centre... How _would_ Andrew,  this evening, react?  
  
Andrew, outwardly the personification of calm, silently stepped up into Danny's face and glared down at him from his superior height of six-two. Almost a foot taller, albeit thinner.  
  
"My _name_ is Andrew. Not Andy."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So: you call me Andrew. Simple." His voice had gone more Scottish, possibly Glaswegian, definitely scary with its unexpected quiet  growl.  
  
Danny tried to sound unperturbed. "OK. _Andrew the poof_ ," he amended, casually as he could.  
  
"That's better." The calm intimidation was dialled up to eleven as Andrew folded his lanky frame down to hiss into Danny's face, "And a _poof_ is not a _nonce_."  
  
Patrick gained some reluctant respect for Danny's bravery, if nothing else, as the brat held his ground stolidly and replied without his voice even wobbling, "I know s that. Lotsa nonces ain't actual poofs, either. Wasn't what I asked."   
  
And further respect due when Andrew replied merely, "I'm not gonna lie. None of your business. Which building's yours, then?"  
  
The kid gestured with his head. "See ya."

  
“Just coming up with you. Carrying food and all.”

  
Danny rolled his eyes and ignored them following him up the stairs.  


On the second floor the smell of urine was less, but Patrick's nerves remained at the same level. The cement floor had stained patches that were either where multiple people had dropped their takeaway s , or from vomit. Danny stopped to unlock a door that was covered in sheet met a l, looking like a prison cell. 

  
"Oi, what d’you want? Can't you push off an hour longer?"  


"No, I ain't." Was that a slight triumph in his voice?  


The whiny voice subsided. 

  
“Um, yeah, look after yourself, eh, see you tomorrow,” Patrick told Danny, c onclud ing that even if they were invited over the threshold, he wasn't going in. 

  
Danny nodded, made the briefest of eye contact, and clanged the door shut.  
  
“Whew. Not making a habit of coming by here,” Andrew remarked. 

  
“Me neither. Poor old Danny.”

  
They realised a group of four youths, probably fifteen year olds, had paused between them and the stairwell. 

 

" Ooh, you're out in the wrong manor,”  one taunted.

  
Andrew replied tetchily, “ Hardly. Here's my manor much as anywhere.”  


“No, mate, that's not how it works. This is our zone, OK?”

  
“OK,” Patrick mumbled placatingly. “ Whatever. We were just leaving.”

  
The tallest lad nodded, and Patrick sidled past, pulling Andrew along behind him. Saved.  


“Wotcha doing with that wierdo kid, anyhow?”  an other  lad aske d.

  
Andrew was unusually tense. The relaxed laconic demeanour was gone;  _ this _ Andrew was on edge,  right  at his limit of holding it together. He said nothing, though, to Patrick's relief, as they clopped down the steps. Until they opened the door to exit, and Andrew, tremor apparent,  turned and  replied, “His name's  _ Danny _ , and if you can't be nice to him, best leave him alone. Or  _ else _ .”

  
Patrick tried to hide a sigh as the tall kid proved he'd read the same guide to macho posturing as Andrew  had .

  
“Or else what?”

  
Again with the leaning over a shorter  brat . “Or else, you'll be picking your brains off the ground with a teaspoon. If you've got any, that is.”

  
The  boy swung. Andrew deflected the arm expertly  with his left arm  and punched him in the face  with his right . As he fell, Andrew grabbed the accelerating second kid and launched him into the bollards. Patrick, impressed and surprised, tried to remember this wasn't TV and put his own fists together. Another brat  had  grabbed him by the collar bef o re he could be deflected, and hissed in Patrick's face, "Stay out of our place. Or else. When's the last time you had a knife at your throat, hey?" 

  
Andrew had kicked the smallest kid in the balls and seen him running away, so had attention to pay for Patrick 's reply, "About 18 months ago, now. The guy  _ died _ .  _ And _ ,” with an attempt at Andrew' s menace, “They deemed it manslaughter.  _ And  _ gave me my knife back..."  
  
The brat paused,  so  Patrick rushed with him towards a wall and smashed him against it –  inelegant but effective –  and Andrew twisted his arm behind his back as Patrick continued conversationally, “so you'd best be very nice to Danny and keep him safe, got it?"  
  
Andrew took over the conversation, pleasantly mentioning, “  W e're going this way, now. You lot are going the other way. And you're going to keep an eye out for Danny, not like be mates, just make sure no-one gives him grief. Got it?”  
Another twist of the arm, the kid nodded eagerly, his injured companions already trying to look nonchalant as they stood up by the wall and edged away.  
  
Patrick and Andrew attempted to look equally calm as they strolled out of the estate, not looking back, but eyeing the lit areas on each side to check for shadows. Back on the main road, they  paused , shaking, panting,  in the drizzle .  
  
There's a bus. Thank god!  They leapt upon the double-decker, to be taken somewhere, anywhere, else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You signal a dodgy priest in chapter four, and Chekhov's rule says a scene like this is required in the second act. I was thinking it was a bit of a cliche, but then more news confirmed that actually, it's reality. Certainly both leading Catholic boarding schools in England had rife sexual abuse at the time, some of the perpetrators now found guilty in due course, but I honestly don't know anyone at school in the 80s who didn't encounter such abuse of authority at some point, even if they personally escaped.
> 
> Looking at a map for where an outdoorsy kid in Hendon might go to avoid his Edgware school cohort, the obvious answer is the Welsh Harp reservoir, where there is a canoe and a sailing club, places to go rock climbing, bird-watching, and a well-organised Sea Cadets branch. While Peter is trying to escape the cadets completely!


	19. Chapter 19

They clambered up to the top deck, and occupied the empty back seat. A few adults slumped quietly near the front, but they were otherwise alone, sprawling in opposite corners, legs but not shoes up on the seats between them. It occurred to Patrick that they were, finally, the lanky sixth-form lads lording it over the buses, whom he'd found intimidating all his life. He gulped for breath; Andrew hadn't been nearly as out of breath as he; even fitter, more used to a fight, he guessed, but despite that, his normally pale face – a taller Steve Davis – was a lurid shade of beetroot.  
  
"Where's this bus going, anyway?"  
  
"No idea. Oh, going past Cricklewood – it'll end up in Golders, then. That'll do, for the Northern Line." Andrew exhaled again, cheeks fading to fuchsia. "Pub? I owe you a pint."  
  
"Hell, yes." Patrick didn't question Andrew's reasoning.  
  
The driver flashed the lights to kick them out just before the bus station at Golders Green, which, as with all self-respecting Tube stations, had a pub opposite. "And not full of squaddies, like the dive by Mill Hill East."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Really, no. You know when it's made very clear you aren't welcome, and it's wordlessly agreed you'll be leaving at the end of your drink?"  
  
Patrick nodded.  
  
"But you don't want to look scared, so you're trying to drink slowly, yet not so slow that they'll think you're taking the piss?"  
  
"Yep." He'd had that in a place he'd tested in Kilburn, that had turned out to be Irish-only, English _not_ welcome, thank you. Ironic, that it had been called the Crown...  
  
"Yeah, well, this place, I was drinking as fast as I could while pretending I wasn't, and ushered myself out really quite rapidly!"  
  
Once sitting down in a quiet alcove, Patrick tried to start conversation, dimly grasping that Andrew had not only had a stressful evening but was close to collapse, thanks to adrenalin and excitement.  
  
"So, you do martial arts, then? As well as all the canoeing and hiking and all? You kept that quiet."  
  
Andrew inhaled, let the breath out, and set his bottle down on the dark-varnished table. "Used to do a lot more. Self-preservation, really. Judo, karate... Aikido, too, for a while – it's like the karate you see on on telly, more legs, less arms – but I mostly did karate.. Wanted to get black belt before leaving school, but I'm mostly treading water at the moment. I'll have to see if I can do more over the summer, back to three sessions a week, but there's so many other temptations, things I could do in the holidays..."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
" _Was_ thinking of canoeing down the Wye Valley, leisurely, taking a week to a fortnight over it. Your mate Peter said he might be up for it. Said rivers were _much_ more his thing than the bloody sea, which sounded a bit odd for a Dartmouth cadet – any idea what he's on about? Seemed to be some tension between him and boats, for sure." He carried on, ignoring Patrick's disingenuous shrug, "Would invite you guys, but the weirs and falls there need some level of rapids experience, not just a quick roll-over lesson in a swimming pool. Lots of lovely places to camp, though, private green patches on the sides of the valley – it's beautiful, the whole area, with lots of pubs near by. Crowd of us, maybe?"  
  
"Mm. Maybe. A couple nights. I mean, I don't _mind_ camping, if it's good weather." With the lads, hanging out near a river, in the sun – it sounded rather fun, actually. Maybe Erin could come too...  
  
"Yeah. Peter might be able to do the whole thing, he said." A deep sigh. It was time, Andrew concluded, to get those elephants to shift out of the room, which really was going to be the scariest thing he'd done that night. Or in his life, possibly. "It's rather a shame, really. That he's not."  
  
It took Patrick a moment to parse the unspoken adjective that didn't apply to Peter, but then he chuckled.  
  
"Really? _Pete_ ? You _would_ ?"  
  
"Didn't get as far as considering that point." The pinkness was flowing across his features, again. "Just noticed he was decorative. That’s all. But he isn't, is he?"  
  
"Mister Peter charming-the-girls-personified Marlow? ‘Fraid not."  
  
"Yeah, sussed that, don't you worry. _You_ don't need to worry, either." Another long exhale, followed by knocking back a good third of his Newky Brown. "Chaps _do_ ."  
  
Patrick slugged a quantity of his own beer. "I have to admit, despite earlier, it hadn't actually occurred to me. You _sure_ ?"  
  
Andrew, his white face still closer to magenta, produced the pleased slow smile of one who has been saving up a joke for years. He attempted a simper and a camp accent, neither of came out plausibl y , as he retorted, " _Sorry,_ darling, you just aren't my type!"  
  
"The feeling's mutual!" Patrick set down his bottle firmly, overwhelming relief that the position had been confirmed swamping just the tiniest sliver of disappointment he wasn't considered ‘decorative’ himself. "My heart _so_ doesn't bleed. Also, Erin would probably kill you."  
  
"Mm. She's quite quietly terrifying, isn't she?"  
  
"I don't know. I quite like it."  
  
Feeling that he'd done quite enough confessing for one night, Andrew decided it was time to quiz Patrick. "On the subject of killing – what you were saying to those morons back there..."  
  
Patrick thought back. "Oh. That." There was no reason not to say, really; _he'd_ been exonerated from all wrong-doing... "True enough, though it wasn't me – this shit-for-brains had nicked my jack-knife, was threatening me with it, but it was his mate, who decided murder was more crime than he'd really signed up for, he grabbed it and lashed out, and moron trips over, lands on the knife being waved, blood for breakfast, and by the time I'd stood up, the idiot wasn't breathing and his mate wanted to get the hell out."  
  
"Nasty! What _happens_ with accidental manslaughter, anyway? Is it just suspended sentence for a while, like with driving?"  
  
"Dunno. Jukie – the guy who saved me – was convinced he'd be done for murder – _long_ string of previous – he ended up driving off with me so I could direct him to Holyhead for the ferry, he wanted to run away to Ireland – then he thought about turning himself in, panicked when he saw a police roadblock, and wrote the car off. His boss's vintage Roller and all."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Died, at the scene. I somehow got thrown clear – gravel burns and concussion – see?" He lifted his fringe. "Me, long interview with local plods, end of."  
  
Though of course it _wasn't_ the end: his friendship with Simon had stemmed from it all... And that in turn had got him together with Erin - _would_ he have, without Simon's avuncular guidance? Possibly, eventually, though the stylish clothes from Paris might well have helped, which in turn he had to thank Jukie's bosses for...  
  
"Mm. Wondered about that. Scars which make you look cool, but you hiding them and never explaining. _Had_ to be history."  
  
"Uh-huh. Like your last school, clearly not happiness and light, though I've got an inkling, now."  
  
"Very glad to avoid anything north of home, now. School – kids _and_ teachers – really weren't understanding."  
  
"And Luke's is? I mean, I know us lot don't care – Sanj would probably give you a lecture on avoiding AIDS, if she weren't too embarrassed, but I doubt Fergus would be tolerant . And we know what Sully's like about toeing the Catholic line, Mission fundraising and all."  
  
"Not for Sixth, Sully isn't. Or the younger kids, outside hours. All about chasing good exam results, our Sully is . And non-Catholics can't be expected to obey your doctrine anyway – not that my family's churches go a bundle either, but luckily Dad's a very _ex_ Wee Free. Hostile to all religion, now. Mum was baptised - Methodist - but she's almost as lapsed.  
  
"They know?" He knew the phrase was 'out', but that sounded too ingratiating.  
  
"Well. They do and they don't. It's been obvious, what with a couple incidents of graffiti and violence, and Stuart – my older brother – not speaking to me, but I've never explicitly _said_ . Dad tries not to think about it and Mum just puts books I 'might be interested in' in my room... I recommend Tales of the City, actually...  
  
Anyway, as you say, there's you lot. You'd all sussed, hadn't you?"  
  
"I couldn't say for sure, but Kathy and Erin, yes. Kathy's probably made it clear to Samir, Sandra's probably cottoned. Kieran... probably never thought about it and cares less."  
  
"It's so weird , being round someone like most of my old school – sports the only thing that matter, anyone not interested is probably queer, anyone who _is_ , god help them... but yet Kieran's actually _nice_ ! Partly, just being taller and older than most of the school helps – Edgware Grammar was bad from the off, me being weedy and ginger..."  
  
"Thrice cursed?"  
  
"Four, if you include the specs I had... Outgrew them, at least. It's not _me_ minding, really, just the rest of the world. Though, y'know, AIDS... But, a ssuming a voiding that, roll on Sussex for uni – it's outside Brighton, obviously, but also good for English or Economics, whichever I go for."  
  
"You're sounding remarkably chilled about the whole school finding out, if I may say." Danny didn't strike Patrick as one who would refrain from anything when he lost it, below-the-belt insult or not. "I know Luke's is reasonably live-and-let, certainly compared to _my_ old places, but there's still that Catholic ethos and trad families..."  
  
" I’m through terrified and out the other side, I think. Look at me doing all this talking! And that fight earlier should help – I'm pretty sure at least a couple of those kids go to Luke's. But seriously – _you_ guys aren't going to spread rumours, and who'd believe Danny? About _anything_ ?"  
  
"Who indeed. What Father Mike was counting on, I guess."  
  
"Yeah. What do we do?"  
  
"Do? Us? These things happen." Certainly _had_ , at his prep, but generally that had been a couple irascible masters – bomb damage to their brains in the War, boys said; not the priests. Though his year in the senior school, avoiding whims of prefects, suggested that

the odd fondling git was far from the worst evil one might encounter.  
  
"This is more than your typical gropey guy getting a little jolly, though. He was _forcing_ the brat. Probably bruised his arms. I mean, that's _got_ to be a crime!"  
  
"Possibly is. The police wouldn't believe us much more than Danny."  
  
"True, that. And I'd really prefer not, given what he was saying after."  
  
"Qué?"  
  
Another of those long drinks from the glass bottle. "He said, don't know if he knew or just a lucky shot, he'd seen me..." He blushed again behind his pint. "On the Heath..."  
  
Patrick started to ask, _what were you doing_ , but figured out the general gist. "You? _Really_?"  
  
Andrew, back to beetroot, said nothing.  
  
"O- _kay_... I mean, I read the papers, too... Right. Well… Don't do anything too stupid." He meant, l _ook after yourself_.  
  
"Really, I _don't._ " Well, mostly. "Just... meeting..."  
  
"Please, just stop there! And if anything went beyond a mutual hand shandy – even if it didn't, actually – I really, really don't want to know!"  
  
A flash of confusion cleared from Andrew's face. "Gotcha. You know, you know way too many phrases for this stuff. Can see why I wondered..."  
  
"You and my mother both! I'm not sure my folks exactly _approve_ of Erin, I mean, they don’t, hugely, but one gets the distinct impression of relief that at least she's a girl and an improvement on any predecessors. Not that they know about Claudie, obviously. Another?  
  
Settled down again with another pair of bottles, Patrick considered how Danny could be protected. "Back to Father Mike. Can't see Derek believing us over his priest, not enough to do anything. Plods are out – Danny would freak. Sully – no way..."  
  
"Spread it about, not to trust him? Kelly and Michael think he's a perv already. Bet half the other kids would happily avoid if given moral back-up and encouragement. What else _can_ we do?"  
  
"Cunning. Actually, you know how it was Masey got us in here? She might have an idea. She knows how to handle Father Derek..."  
  
Andrew considered. “It's an option. She'd probably believe us at least, and even if she couldn't do owt, she might be able to get more help for Danny, maybe? Yes.  Let the grown-up deal with it."

"As long as you don’t mean me. I’m not sure I want to be eighteen next month."

"You got a baby’s brain and an old man’s heart?"

"I don’t know what I’m talking about, and I’m living in the middle of doubt, that’s for sure." 

  
  
A third pint made it a late night, catching up on his history until past midnight, but felt necessary.  
  
Patrick left it to Andrew to do the speaking, when they ran Masey to ground at breaktime. "Can we have a word? A chat, really."  
  
Ms Masefield looked startled, gold chains jangling around her polo-neck. If the high neck was meant to make her look taller, it wasn't working. "About school work?"  
  
"No. We need advice on something." Succinct.  
  
"Um, well, if you think so! I'm not a counsellor or pastoral care, you know. Can you come by this room at twelve?"  
  
They presented themselves outside the familiar door and watched through the squared-glass panel as a small group of third years stumbled through some poetry. Learning Support, Patrick guessed. The kids were unleashed, nearly flattening Andrew and Patrick as they flooded out, and they stepped back into their familiar classroom.  
  
They sat down in flip-desk chairs opposite Ms Masefield; so far, so normal.  
  
"How can I help you?"  
  
Andrew glanced at Patrick, remained silent. Patrick stepped up; his turn. "OK. You know the Luke's centre, we've been working there since October? Me, Andrew, all our tutor group, in fact."  
  
"Yes. Mr Sullivan's been very impressed with the commitment you've shown. I hear he's thinking of adopting the centre as the school's official charity." Her lips clenched at one end, as if hiding a smile.  
  
_Nice one, Masey_ , Patrick thought but didn't say.

  
"So, there's Father Derek you introduced us to, he seems very nice. Monsignor Sebastian, who is there sometimes, I gather he mainly works with adults and anyone who speaks Spanish. The kids think he's a decent chap. And then there's Father Mike..."  
  
He halted, and wondered both what Masey would conclude from that silence, and why Father Mike didn't go by Michael – Mike sounded far too matey for a clergy. Then it hit him that that would be _exactly_ why Mike did it, and felt somewhat sick.  
  
In her familiar sarcastic tone, "Reading between the lines here: you _don't_ think Father Mike is a decent chap? Why not?"  
  
Bless Masey, cutting to the chase. "He's fine to us lot. Most of the young kids were leery of him from when we first went though, he _does_ do too much hands on shoulders going past, compliments that are a bit... Kelly refused to ever be in a room with him, put it that way, and she lives off any helpful adult she can find!"  
  
"Kelly? Kelly Mulroney? First year?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Mm. So what changed, that made you feel the need to come to me?"  
  
She didn't appear to be disbelieving. Did that mean she'd heard of such things before? He stayed silent for some seconds - how to explain?  
  
"We were there last night, me cooking in the kitchen, Andrew helping out -"  
  
"It was raining, thought I might as well -"  
  
"So I sent him to the pantry, to find me more tomatoes, then I heard yelling, he hadn't come back, and when there's yelling there's usually Danny... He's like a whipped puppy but has glommed onto me, thought I'd better investigate... You'd better do this bit..."  
  
Andrew nodded, even paler than usual.  
  
"I'd gone into the pantry, the front part, was looking round all quiet I guess, when I realised Father Mike had Danny behind the bread cage – that's what the huge crate on wheels for bakery stuff is called – and he was holding Danny down, to make him kneel..." He tailed off, sickened.  
  
"Mm- _hm_. And then what happened?"  
  
"I screamed something like "get off him, you sicko", he said no-one would believe Danny, and then he said..." Andrew sat up, determinedly straight. "He said, I was just like him, gay, and I told him no way, I'm queer but never a nonce. And _he_ said that meant I wasn't gay..."  
  
Patrick couldn't take the tension any more. "And this was where I walked in, having just heard Mike saying Andrew had to be a perv too..." He collapsed in giggles.  
  
For once, Ms Masefield looked at a loss. "I'm sorry, I'm not seeing the humour here."  
  
"He said he'd prove it – being gay..." Patrick had to cough as his nose tickled from the laughter.  
  
“I _meant_ to prove it to Mike, but then Patrick showed up and I ended up snogging him – seemed like a good idea at the time, really I wasn't looking, had no _idea_ who it was– I'm _so_ sorry, mate – and Mike flounced off, saying no-one would believe any of us. Just glad it wasn't Father Derek...”  
  
“And we took Danny home. He was in a right state, all curled up crying, going 'not again'... Er. That's it. His flats are _horrible_... Um, Miss? You don't sound surprised or shocked?”  
  
She blinked. "Oh, no. I have to admit we on the staff have been pleasantly surprised to see you both settling in so well, after your...Well. _Different_ issues at previous schools..."  
  
"But what about Father Mike? We can't just let him..."  
  
"The Catholic Church might well disagree with you there. Make him repent, and wash their hands... Can’t ruin the Church’s reputation… No, but thank you for alerting me, and I _will_ see what Derek can do. Don't worry, Derek at least is completely discreet."  
  
It occurred to Patrick that she hadn't said anything about Danny, which probably meant there _wasn't_ more that could be done, there.  
  
She didn't get back to them, but he did notice Father Mike didn't appear in the centre again that week. _No longer working in this parish_ , Monsignor Sebastian said; family reasons were alluded to. _Result_ , he supposed, but it seemed unsatisfactory.  
  
The next week yielded an unexpected free period in the middle of the day, so Patrick decided to make an start on that day's stew; Tuesdays often meant a delivery of fresh veg left over from the market. On his way to the centre kitchen, he paused in the corridor, hearing voices in Father Derek's office.  
  
"It's all I can do, Diane."  
  
"Oh, cut it out, Derek! Move on one dodgy priest to do exactly the same elsewhere, get a new one in, who for all we know will be exactly the same! You knew Michael was foisted on you for a reason, didn't you, Derek? And you failed those kids!"  
  
"Mr Macdonald seems a very well-adjusted young man, despite his persuasion."  
  
"And isn't that your lucky day, because we all know Danny Walsh is quite the opposite of well-adjusted! You'd done a good job of making him slightly less feral – well, Michael would have got most of the credit – and now we're back below square one!"  
  
"I _know_." Patrick imagined Father Derek putting his head in his hands, elbows on the desk, as he settled in to eavesdrop properly. "I knew there was some history with Mike, there always is when it's a managed move, but I was given to believe it was fiddling accounts. Which, given how desperate I was to get rid of the _last_ kiddy-fiddler, he seemed like an improvement..."  
  
"What? Not Father Gregory?"  
  
"Oh yes. Notorious piece of work, he was, let's park him in a parish with a new young priest who doesn't have any friends in the top brass... Vicious, with it – tell anyone and he'd hurt their mum, that type. I begged, get rid, turn him in to the police..."  
  
"But you never contacted the fuzz yourself?" _Cold_.  
  
“I did, once. Not Gregory, a previous chap. Malcolm was at the seminary with me. We found his Polaroid collection. Police got ever so politely turned away by the Bishop, the pics having conveniently gone missing, though I think it _was_ suggested to him that his vocation lay elsewhere. Scouting or teaching, probably. Since then, everyone knows nothing will ever happen until a nice middle-class guaranteed virgin, with two reliable witnesses, is willing to stand up in court. It's a shame Macdonald's a queer – he and Merrick might have made a good case, otherwise, good lads... but no, the Walsh kid couldn't convince anyone of one plus one being two..."  
  
"So you're saying there's nothing can be done? The Church just carries on, using bairns as toys?"  
  
"Worked that way for centuries. At least they aren't sold into it any more. No, nothing on the record to be done, the nuncio won’t have it. Though...”  
  
A pause. Patrick could imagine Masey’s piercing look.  
  
Sighing, Derek continued, “It's possible... Some of my old Army mates might happen to be drinking near his place soon, and there _might_ be a scuffle. Which _might_ not go so well for Michael, you understand."  
  
"’Marvellous ways, his wonders to perform.’"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"You always were a devious sod, Derek! Just like when you used to come up with all your reasons you couldn't do the washing-up!'  
  
"Aye, I had to, with you bring the clever one at the book-learning!"  
  
"All right, I'll let you off, kid. But mind you happen to mention Father Mike getting beaten up, so the kids know."  
  
A creaking noise of assent. "Leave me now – I've got a lot of visits this afternoon. So many distressed ladies of a certain age..."  
  
The sound of Ms Masefield clambering down from the desk. "The hardship. Let them down gently, won't you Derek?"  
  
"Of course. But a bit of flirting that won't go anywhere – I'm a _priest_ you know – it _is_ one of the perks of the job..."  
  
"Never change, Derek."  
  
"You neither, Di."  
  
Sounds of hugging, and Patrick ducked swiftly into the kitchen. He was hauled out by an imperious call, "That you, Patrick?"  
  
Bloody woman had the hearing of a cat, as well as coming to correct conclusions way too rapidly.  
  
"How much did you hear?"  
  
He considered deniability; decided best to admit something. "Apparently Father Mike might not enjoy his next visit to the pub, soon?"  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"Could be anyone. Probably lots of people all over don't like him. Cocky bastard."  
  
"Indeed." She sounded just like Derek, there. She appeared to come to a decision. "Carry on. I have to say, we're impressed at your commitment to the Centre – I don't think anyone thought you'd last long."  
  
He'd realised, standing up to Masey was usually less terrifying than not.  
  
"Why? Because I'm posh?'  
  
She tilted her head, allowing that one. Touché. "Partly, mixed with a large dose of teenager fickleness and discomfort. Sometimes, just turning up is what counts."  
  
He thought of Kelly's delight in seeing her mother at the Christmas show; of Danny leaving it, alone.  
  
"Some reward for you and the team, anyway – next week there's going to be trips out funded by..." she shrugged, "some church group or charity or summat. Laser Quest, ice skating, possibly even Chessington. For any kids who've used the after-school provision. They'll need escorts, at least two per group. I'll let you off homework for the week, for it."  
  
Patrick was impressed, though became distinctly less so after a minibus ride with a dozen overexcited kids singing a scurrilous ditty about areas of London, and being dumped next to an old storage unit somewhere near the North Circular.  
  
"Yeah! I's gonna shoot you all down!" Michael mimed machine gun fire as he strafed the changing room with his laser gun. Patrick helped Kelly heft her pack into position – laser targets fore and aft, as well as power packs for the guns, made them very bulky on the younger kids.  
  
"OK, Red Team! You're going to fill these forms in – needed for our insurance, nothing onerous, then you'll be led in down the left hand side. Green Team – thanks for the paperwork, now you'll be given your packs and guns. Remember, all of you, no touching, hitting, hiding your targets, and we can see you all on our cameras. Anyone behaving in a non-sporting way will be thrown out immediately, no argument, no comeback. Got it? Here's your pens...”  
  
Patrick collected cards from his excited crew, trying not to have too obvious a nosey at their addresses and dates of birth, ‘always thought he was older’, ‘nice street – oh, 26E, must be a small converted flat’, chivvying them into line, and "Michael, do get on with it! _Seriously._.." He waved the others on and resigned himself to standing over the boy as he fannied about. "You can't go in unless it's done!"  
  
As soon as the last team-mates had gone through the door, Michael checked they were alone. "Er, like, sir?"  
  
It wasn't unusual for the kids to call the sixth-formers Sir or Miss, but the desperate tone was new. "Yes?"  
  
"You can write this form for me, can't ya?"  
  
Sighing, Patrick took the card, to speed things up. Then, " _Look_ , name, address, date of birth, signature. For the love of God, just do it!"  
  
"Oh, is that what it says?"  
  
The cheeky git... Then, noting Michael putting his finger slowly along the letters of ‘Name:’, snapped, "Can you not bloody read?"  
  
Michael looked up, his face pleading, blushing deep burgundy. _Guilty_.  
  
You really can't, can you? How the hell did you get through primary... don't tell me, let's just get this done. What's your surname? Vaughn?  
  
“Vee-ay-you, gee-haitch-en,” Michael sing-songed.  
  
“Address?” Michael told him, looked curiously over Patrick's shoulder as he wrote it down.  
  
"That's what it looks like. What's the other bits?”  
  
“Date of birth?” A silence. “When's your birthday? And what year? How _old_ are you? So seventy-four, then.” He wrote down the numbers.  
  
"Oh, that's cool, ‘cos August is the eighth month so you've done eight there, cunning!”  
  
“Right, just need you to sign your name there. Can you write your name?”  
  
Michael looked up at him. “Yeah, course! I'm not _stupid_."  
  
Feeling tired, Patrick followed Michael into the Laser Quest entry way, and then concentrated on blasting the Greens led by Samir and Andrew.  
  
They lost, but by a respectable margin. “Who let the Cadet into a shoot-out?” Erin grumbled at Andrew. Danny had done remarkably well, and took his plastic medal with rare pride.  
  
Patrick collared the English teacher after next morning's lesson. “Ms Masefield?”  
  
"What is it – shall we go back into the classroom?"  
  
"No, just a quick thing... Do you know Michael Vaughn? First year, skinny black kid, always laughing and joking?"  
  
“No... Oh, yes, I do know; his teacher was struggling with him, bright kid, can't get him to work...”  
  
“Did you know he can't read? Like, a form saying name, address, signature – he has no idea, even though he really wants to fill it in – can't read?”  
  
“Really? I'd sent him for assessments but there's _such_ a long waiting list. We had wondered, but I guess he's exceptionally good at hiding it – many kids are...”  
  
“He’s _bright_ , though? Full of ideas, practical, articulate...”  
  
“The two aren't mutually exclusive. There's a thing called ‘dyslexia’ - words and letters seem to wobble about, so otherwise-intelligent kids don't manage to read, or not well. I'll look into it, thank you. Oh, and Patrick?” She looked up at him, expressionless. He hadn't realised how much shorter she was than he, but she couldn’t be more than five-two...  
  
“Yes, miss?”  
  
“I saw an article in the Camden Advertiser. Bloke in a pub fight ended up in hospital, who turned out to be an off-duty priest, and worked at Luke's centre. They think it was an argument over the politics of the Troubles... A Father Mike, it said.”  
  
He had to admire her deadpan acting as she passed him a local paper. “Oh. How... shocking.”  
  
“You might want to let the kids at the centre know. And Derek.”  
  
“Is Father Derek your brother, miss?” He didn't want to sound over-familiar.  
  
She relaxed, a safe subject, finally. “Yes, he is. Baby of the family – we're years younger than the two older ones. He's very like me, everyone says. Only I'm nowhere nice enough to be a priest, not to mention the God bit. But I have faith in him. See you next week, Patrick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines "baby’s brain and an old man’s heart" and following are from Alice Cooper's 'I'm Eighteen'.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy St Patrick's Day! 
> 
> This is chapter 20; there will be five more, which will appear roughly weekly. 
> 
> After this alpha draft is complete, I'll edit the thing as a whole to improve characterisation near the start and remove various inconsistencies. Any offers of beta readers will be gratefully received.

Spring took its time about coming. February consisted of icy weather and disappointing flurries of snow that melted as soon as they encountered damp ground, making everyone and everything want to remain inside. Green crocus shoots tentatively pushed tips an inch into the air before deciding that was _quite_ enough of that, and ceased any growth for at least another fortnight. Jessica, physically now in fine fettle, was unenthusiastic about flying at anything, and Patrick resigned himself to at least another two months of early mornings to tend to her. As term went on, he and his friends found themselves going home more often than to Eyan's cafe or a pub, a primitive nesting instinct mixed with increased volumes of homework. Not always their own homes, to start, but they’d each be off to their own by six.

He invited Erin to his, first with, then tentatively, without any of the others. She'd made clear with a stare that telly and homework were an acceptable agenda; snuggling on the sofa appropriate for the former only. After the initial awkwardness, it felt surprisingly comfortable in a way such things never had with Ginty, who'd always seemed to be _performing_ the role of girlfriend rather than simply _being_. In her way, she was as much of an actress as Lawrie... He went over to Erin’s on Valentine’s Day when she offered to cook, and adapted to the role of kitchen minion with gusto; he wasn’t surprised that both her parents felt the need to return home early in the evening. Erin's mother was still visibly disapproving of his existence, for being a teenager with designs on her daughter, and for being from sound Tory stock, both reasons conflicting with her urge to be a welcoming hostess.  
  
Oddly, it reassured him that someone else was as socially awkward as he was, and he enjoyed going there, even if he was expected to remain downstairs at all times. He couldn't, really, _blame_ the woman – her assumptions regarding his longer-term intentions were spot on, after all. Summer; privacy outside somewhere, maybe Barnet Woods, or at Meriot Chase...  
  
Erin stirred her chocolate sauce with concentration – that phase after the cornflour, before thickening began, was always a tense moment – and glanced up at her mother entering the room, hands full with a heavy cardboard box. She turned back to grimace comically at Patrick, who was helping by staying out of Erin's way, sitting at the table with a mug of tea.  
  
"It's the leaflets for the local election." Mrs Connor thunked the box onto the dining table. "I said that you'd be happy to do the letterboxing for our ward – you will, won't you, dear? There's a map on the top. Perhaps your friend Patrick could help you?   
  
'Friend' grated, but arguing for any other term would sound merely peevish. The request was clearly an order.   
  
"I’ll give you five pounds once it's done. Between you," she added in clarification.   
  
Time to be extra-pleasant to Erin's mother, again. "Of course, Mrs Connor."  
  
She smiled down at him, a crocodile who had trapped its fish. "Good."  
  
As soon as she'd exited, Erin removed her saucepan from the heat and grabbed his arm. "Won't your family be furious?"  
  
“What?”  
  
"Distributing election leaflets! For Labour!"   
  
He'd vaguely assumed polling cards, _no_ , council brochures reminding everyone to vote, but of course, Erin's dad, the morose Labour activist... this would be _Party_ political leafletting... " _Damn_."  
  
“It's OK. I can do them myself. I understand!”  
  
“Thanks. But your ma doesn't. It's a test, I can tell.”  
  
“You're not wrong. Bloody woman! Wouldn't be surprised if she tipped off a local journalist, too, just to make sure the picture of you with Labour campaign materials could get to your dad.”  
  
He'd thought Erin's phrase a bit strong, but _if_ Mrs Connor did that... " _Would_ she?"   
  
“Oh, _probably_ not. But it's a risk, isn't it? What would your dad say?”  
  
“I don't know, actually. He keeps _saying_ , how I need to make up my own mind on political issues, but causing him any more embarrassment... I don't want to make trouble for him _again_!”  
  
“How about you ask him? Then, if he says no, we've got the perfect excuse to go back to Mum?”  
  
And thus Patrick ensured the next morning that he was efficiently bathed and dressed and his hawk likewise, as it were, to enable him to coincide with his father at the breakfast table. “Pa? How embarrassing would it be for you, if I were to deliver election leaflets for Labour?"  
  
Mr Merrick coughed slightly, and laid down his porridge spoon. Then he spoke.   
  
“Are you asking me this as a hypothetical, or because this is what you have been doing and you wanted to tell me before it appeared in the Londoner's Diary column of the Standard?”  
  
His tone was light, but a tense edge betrayed potential fury being reined back for the now.  
  
“Oh no, I haven't! That's why I asked, see? What it is, Erin's been asked to distribute a box, by her mother, and the ma said to me, you could help her of course, couldn't you, and me not knowing what the leaflets were said of course, that being obviously the only answer, but then we thought you wouldn't be happy, like you say, potential for the Standard and all...”  
  
Anthony knocked back another three spoonfuls in relief. “Glad to hear it. It’s not that I want to try to alter any of your political views – unless they're wrong of course” - _joke, bad_ , _sign of relaxation_ , “but as you know, the local muck-rakers will make a story out of anything. I'd really prefer you didn't, I'm afraid. And you can tell Erin's ma I said so.”  
  
“That's what Erin said I could do.” He sighed. “So much for any chance of rising above a pollutant in her household.”  
  
“Those aren't the only options,” Mrs Merrick interrupted. “It’s natural for Pat and Erin to want to spend time together. There's no reason why Pat couldn't distribute flyers for your candidate at the same time.” She resumed stirring her coffee. “ _Go on_. You call up the local office – oh, Belsize, is it? - and volunteer Pat for local distribution.”   
  
Mr Merrick's face broadened with a slow smile. "I always did love your Machiavellian streak, Helena! Yes, why not. Send them together. Could be interesting if anyone answers their doors, I suppose.”  
  
“They can say it's introducing a ‘much needed sense of unity and common sense’ to local politics," his wife retorted. "The loony councils of London could do with a bit more horse-and-common!”  
  
Somewhat dazed, Patrick let these arrangements be made over his head, and went to call Erin. Consequently, after school, he made it to hers with a similar box, carefully wrapped in a bin bag – he wasn't going to be seen with Tory literature on the bus, thank you _very_ much – and they set off companionably.  
  
“You take a stack of mine, I'll take one of yours, and we can each do a side of the street,” she told him.  
  
“But we're supposed to knock on doors, aren't we? Won't that be a bit weird if you've got both parties?”  
  
“I wouldn't worry. No-one ever answers. Seriously, I think I got two people from my five-hundred last year.”  
  
“Year before. Really?”  
  
“Really. And they just told me to get lost. They're never going to grill you on party policy, just whinge on about their bins.”  
  
“Bins?”  
  
“Local politics is ninety-five per cent about getting the bins emptied. The rest is potholes, libraries, and the parking problem on the High Road. And complaining about McDonald's trying to get planning permission... All the stuff people meet every day. All the high-minded manifesto stuff is your dad's mob. But if anyone does answer, just call me over, OK?”   
  
“OK.” It was pleasingly methodical work, now the weather was less actively chilly; take two flyers, push through letterbox, mind the fingers, push the doorbell, walk into the next house's area, repeat. Until one house opened its front door, and instinctively he yelled for Erin.   
  
As she trotted across the street to him, an imperious voice inquired, “Yes? What is it, boy?”  
  
“Oh! Um, good afternoon. I was wondering if you would, if you were willing, could maybe tell me,”  
  
“Spit it out, boy. I've not got all day.”  
  
“We're asking about your voting intentions for the next election,” Erin saved him.  
  
“Humph! They're all a bunch of corrupt cretins, and you can tell them I said so! Good day!” She slammed the door in their faces.  
  
Erin giggled at his shock. "That's par for the course. No threats, no swearing; good, really. Want to swap sides?"  
  
He reached a small block of flats at the end of the road. No-one buzzed to let him in, so he'd decided to simply dump a dozen of each leaflet through the letterbox, when he heard a window open from above.   
  
A man stuck his head out of the second-floor window. “Wotcha want?”   
  
“Just dropping off leaflets for the election?”   
  
“What? Oh, election!” A radio played in the background. The man was spattered with paint and had a pencil stuck through his Afro, which appeared a superior solution to behind the ear.   
  
“Are you eligible to vote? Which party?” Patrick called up.  
  
“Who wants to know?”   
  
Patrick hesitated, and was glad of it, as the man then called out, "Cos if there's flyers for the Tories, I'll be pouring down boiling oil onto your head!"   
  
“Nah, Labour,” Patrick yelled back, fingers crossed.   
  
“Oh. Nah, I'm Green Party, mate.”   
  
“How many views have you got?” he asked Erin when she crossed the road to rejoin him.  
  
"One local Labour Councillor, two not eligible to vote in UK, two dunno's and a get lost, bitch. You?”  
  
“A Green and two doors shut in the face.”  
  
"Par for the course. We're over halfway, though."   
  
Two streets later, he noticed Erin squawking, and ran to join her on a doorstep, just as a glass-windowed door in a Fifties semi was pulled ajar.   
  
"Yes?" A quavering, elderly female voice.   
  
"Er, good afternoon. We're distributing campaign leaflets for local political parties, and were wondering which party might be able to rely on your vote this election?” No mention of party, nicely diplomatic, Patrick thought, impressed.   
  
The woman opened the door further, and looked down at the two leaflets on her doormat, one with scarlet and black ink, the other cobalt-blue with black. "Loony Labour and the bloody Tories? I should think not! After what they've done to this country over the last twenty years, selling out the miners, the end of British industry! A pox on the both their houses! Never!” She removed her hand from the door jamb in order to thump her stick on the ground.   
  
“Right. I'll put you as a no, then, sorry to disturb you. Which party might you vote for, may I ask?”   
  
The woman's face softened. "Well, I've got a soft spot for that nice Mr Ashdown... I like his hair."   
  
They went back to Erin's house, hand in hand. He could get used to this, Erin pointing at bouffant middle-aged men and whispering, “I like his _hair_ ”, making them both giggle wildly.   
  
“We've done the leaflets, mum. Can I have that fiver now?”  
  
She looked startled. “Both of you?”  
  
“Yes! Always happy to help, many hands, light work and all that,” Patrick replied disingenuously, enjoying Erin being the one, for once, having to stifle laughter. The ploy appeared to have worked – while there might still be hovering and a ban on upstairs, along with Mrs Connor’s general anxiety, she certainly seemed – almost – to welcome him after that. She’d even bought biscuits.   
  
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. They’re Gateway’s economy range.”

 

  
  
Life was, Patrick reckoned, going reasonably well, as he hopped off the bus that had transported him from the bird sanctuary to Eyan's café in time for a leisurely breakfast with Simon. After today, only one more packet to discard...   
  
Sem took his order, but his new enthusiasm for life was absent.

"What's up, Sem?"   
  
"The college. They need half the money up front. _Deposit._ I have until next week."   
  
"Oh? Thought you had savings, you said?"   
  
"I have some. Not enough."   
  
"Bummer. What about Alan – could he lend you?"   
  
"He is paying me, many shifts, so I will have money by the time the course starts."  
  
"Oh _well._ In that case, ask for an extension! And I'm sure Alan could put in writing, you will have it."  
  
"You think. I will try." The dream of catering college was still too incorporeal to be properly believed in, likely to be whipped away by the fairies any time, for those who got ideas and took for granted second chances they did not deserve.   
  
Once Sem returned to the kitchen, Patrick pulled out his envelope; nothing incriminating about a brown envelope, stuffed it in Simon's pocket, and went on with his bacon bap.   
  
The reciprocal envelope went in his school bag – _just some of my savings, was thinking about buying a hi-fi or a computer, but haven't – wasn’t sure which BBC Micro to get_ _–_ no need for all this angst... He might ask Simon, perhaps...

“You think _I_ know anything about anything? Dream on! Don’t even have an A-level, me!”

  
  
  
Two late evenings of hard graft rewarded him with a weekend free of homework. Thus on Saturday night, a carefree Patrick reclined lazily in the largest sofa at Berlin, Erin leaning on his shoulder with just enough plausible deniability between them for both their comforts. What was Sandra doing at the bar, seriously, how long did it _take_ some people…  
  
He saw Simon emerging from the gloom at the back, and, anticipating the usual nod and murmured hello, tilted his head himself. "All right?"  
  
Simon didn't meet his eye initially, then looked panicked as he suddenly swung towards them. He hissed through his beard, "You've got to get out! Now!"  
  
Erin laughed at his dramatics. "Police coming to do age checks, are they? Or are you just saying that, so's you can nick our seats?" It was a ploy Patrick and the others often used of a weekend, but looking at Simon, he looked pale, unkempt, as if they _had_ interrupted his making a speedy exit...  
  
"No." _Terrified,_ not just wan. "Police'll be coming, though. Someone's been stabbed. Come _on_!"  
  
As if by a reflex, they rose and exited swiftly, not drawing attention to themselves, beckoning Sandra and Kathy from the bar to come with them. Once back on the road into the industrial estate, two police cars sped past towards the club, all blues and twos.  
  
"Think I might head home, then," Sandra said. Patrick decided not to quibble about his couple quid she'd had from him.  
  
"Me too," Erin said, to Patrick's disappointment. "It's put me off the night, rather." Kathy agreed with them both, giving Simon a hard stare. The others might find him a docile teddy bear, but _she_ certainly didn't trust him.  
  
Erin took Patrick’s hand, but wasn't close enough and it slipped through her fingers. "Come on! Before we get asked about underage clubbing!"  
  
Patrick stood on the pavement with one foot pointing towards her, one towards Simon, who was starting to mooch down the road – no, wrong verb, more dejected than that, head down, slow, lacking any motivation to get anywhere. He should take Erin home, he knew, or at least to the main road, to a bus stop, _that_ was basic manners. And he wanted to, but – there was Simon, still white, and _alone_.   
  
Someone needed to look after Simon – the gods knew no-one else would – and he did regard Simon as a friend, he figured, after all their morning breakfasts together. Simon reminded him somewhat of Jukie, ensnared in crime he hadn't planned on committing, unable to see a way out. It struck him, suddenly clear as a bell: he didn't want Simon to consider solutions as reckless as Jukie's had been, _couldn't_ risk it in fact, which made the choice easy. Following through, less so.   
  
“I'm _so_ sorry, Erin. I need to check Simon's OK – look at the state he's in! Oi, Andrew, could you do me a huge favour and see Erin home? Look, I'll explain later, OK?"  
  
He ran to catch up with Simon, not risking a look back. Feeling both like a heel and certain that there was no better option, he started walking alongside the oddly hunched-over Simon.

Patrick slowed his panting and asked, "What happened?"


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon talks to Patrick.

 

Simon continued to pace slowly as Patrick caught him up. They walked another hundred yards in silence.   
  
"So. Your handiwork, then?" Patrick spoke coldly; yet another chap he'd rather liked, letting him down with a knife.   
  
"What? No! Of course not!" Simon sounded surprised, as well as indignant. "Why on _earth_?"   
  
"Really?"   
  
“Yeah, really!" _Offended_ , the man was. "What's this, blame someone in a dodgy coat and stubble, just because he sells a bit of gear occasionally?"  
  
"More than a bit, people tell me."   
  
"People tell all sorts." He inhaled on a cigarette, deeply, and exhaled a droopy plume of smoke away from Patrick, towards the street. "Besides, you're responsible for most of it."   
  
"Me? You know I had one bit, wanted rid. You had the reputation as someone to go to..."   
  
"Like I said, reputations come from all sorts. Pile of bollocks."   
  
They ambled down towards Cricklewood, then Kilburn. Patrick accepted a Marlboro as the clearly-shaken Simon lit up another. "So what _did_ happen there?" He meant, _why are you so bothered, if it's nothing to do with you_?  
  
"I know the guy. The one what got stabbed, I mean. Brian. Never seen him here before, though. No idea who did it.” A laconic shrug of his large shoulders. “Well, I have ideas, there's several toe-rags, his on-off girlfriend who's a bleedin' nightmare – shouldn't say that, he's a total tosser, probably knocks her around, and all."  
  
"How d'you know him? Selling?"   
  
Simon perched himself on a street sign announcing the Kilburn High Road. He rearranged himself a few times, then, after some seconds, spoke generally to the night air. "Buying."  
  
The stillness between them continued. A squashed can rattled down the pavement past them; urban tumbleweed. Eventually Patrick broke the silence, feeling like a priest taking confession, as he tried to sound non-judgemental – _probably failing_ – saying, "Thought you didn't. Use?"   
  
A few cars raced past, overtaking dangerously, and someone honked, but there was silence again on the pavement until Simon said, "I don't. Now."  
  
Another sigh, and Simon settled himself more comfortably, the way Patrick had learned was someone about to tell a story. Lawrie, for example. Or Jukie.   
  
“OK. Me, I mucked around at school. In England, I mean – I didn’t go much, before, not in high school, looking after Mom, having to take Sammy to and from, and all. I'm not good at school work, anyhow. People, names, faces, I remember all those. I can _do_ people, but like science and vocab and all... I'm like a non-stick frying pan for it, man!

“So, forced to do book learning all the time, locked up in a boarding school – you know that feeling? Total claustrophobia, going mad, do _anything_ to escape? Yeah, thought you would. Hell, ain’t it... Anyhow, I start skiving off with a couple other guys, smoke with them, a bit of weed... Nothing too unusual, right?”

Indeed, half of Patrick’s companions at Broomhill crammer’s could have met that description, triggered by a wide variety of reasons.   
  
“Then, we break out one weekend for this massive bender, and I mean massive, _all_ the booze and clubbing on Friday night, more pubbing on Saturday afternoon; by Saturday night I swear I didn't know which way was up. And then we got nicked.”   
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Yeah. Let’s just say I can’t even remember what for – I suppose, must have been drunk’n’disorderly. But they didn’t bother charging us or anything, just kept us there for the full forty-eight hours they could...”  
  
“Scuppering any chance of going back to school that night and the lack of signing-out procedures being a misunderstanding, kind of thing?”  
  
“Precisely. _You_ get it. Admin mistakes only get you so far. So come Monday, my dad has got the cops going batshit, until the plods match up some records and realise they had us all along – I gather Pops was quite scathing about the Met...” Simon chuckled, grimly. “Thing is, on the Saturday evening we’d met up with Alex and some of her friends – that’s her _young_ , allegedly _innocent_ , under-age friends…”  
  
Patrick made what he intended for an encouraging noise, whilst wondering whether Simon meant under-age for drink or what, though he supposed it didn’t much matter.  
  
Simon got up and ambled down a side road, clearly with an idea of where he was going. Patrick followed, curious and wordless. Soon enough, they swung a leg each over one of the wooden picnic tables outside a neighbourhood pub, and sat face to face. Simon lit a cigarette, offered one to Patrick who initially declined, then figured a smoke would be in keeping with the whole story, took it, and lit it off the end of Simon's. A large crumb of ash fell onto the table, still glowing, then faded and collapsed into dust. "Hold mine. What are you having?"   
  
Simon returned with a pint and a clear drink in a half with ice, clinked his smaller glass to Patrick's, and continued as if he'd never paused. "So. We're in some swish club near Leicester Square, full of Sloanes and whatever the male version is called. Terribly pretentious place. _Wanky_ , you guys say. Wasn’t my idea. Turns out, Alex wanted to go there to score off this dodgy geezer. I'd been wondering what was up with her, she'd been acting all tetchy – twitchy – like hiding the hangover from hell." He sucked smoke from the cigarette stub before giving it up and lighting another. "Speed and coke, apparently. As if Mom wasn't enough of a deterrent! Even _she_ always said coke was God's way of saying you had too much money – she was right there, no-one buys charlie if they don't want to show they have money to burn... Benzos and acid was Mom's deal, ‘long with the booze... So I'm trying to tell Al not to be so bloody stupid, stick to vodka if you must, but she wanted the pills and white crystal, wouldn't listen to little old me...   
  
Another measured draw on the cigarette, and three deliberate puffs blown out of Simon’s mouth. “And the bastard not only gave her a good deal, but he was encouraging her to buy more. Whether for her or her mates, I dunno and I doubt he cared. So I did the protective big brother thing when I couldn't stop her. Punched him in the face.” Simon looked up at Patrick, from under his cliff-like brows.

 

“Which had the _slight_ problem that his boss was there and saw it, and he and his heavies – you think I look scary, shit, these guys were the real international shitting deal, ruling half of Central London – Well, between them, they made it _most_ clear that if they'd lost Alex and friends as a market, I'd better take over from squashed-face as a dealer; if I didn't, then they'd find Alex – not too difficult, the girl gets into the sodding Standard colour supp every other month... Where was I?"  
  
"Being told you needed to deal for them or they'd get Alex."  
  
"Oh yeah. Well, put like that, they’d collared me, complained about the loss of market, and if I didn’t want Alex to be given lots of freebies, or tracked down for any other reason, then I’d better buy this – pile of weed and some pills – distribute it, and return a few hundred a month. I convinced them there was a limit to what I could shift, thank god, gave him the speed back saying I couldn't find anyone to buy it, after the second go-round – or else, they'd give Alex everything she wanted _and_ dial it up. They showed me a syringe, put it that way."  
  
"Ouch. What happened then?"   
  
"Well, just after they disappeared and Alex flounced off, that was when the plods show up and nick all three of us for what I’m guessing was D-and-D and me for possession, i.e. what I'd nicked off Alex. So there was me thinking I'd got away with it, but then they sent a message via Al... Last warning, he says. So yeah, I took what Brian gave me – sold me, rather, and made damn sure I sold it for more than he told me to give him back. I diluted the coke from him so much it must have been useless – amazed it sold as well as it did...”  
  
"Sale or return or else... And Alex?"

  
"Ah. She's probably where the rumours about me being scary come from." For the first time, Patrick saw Simon looking somewhat embarrassed. "All it was, OK, was I needed to stop her going back and starting up with the gear again – speed is _expensive_ , you know? Even without fucking coke on top... So – anyway – term ended a week later, hers too; Dad had pushed off abroad again. Turned out the coke she was taking was turning her _really_ horrible, egotistical, arrogant... so,” - he took a deep breath – “I made damn sure she wasn't going out of the house...”  
  
This sounded ominously like the violent boyfriends Patrick saw on TV, defensively confessing on The Bill. Nervous, he asked, "Erm, _how_? Hurting her?"   
  
"No!" Simon jerked up, affronted. "I'd never hurt her! Though he then looked even more sheepish, verging on totally ovine, as he continued," Just... OK, so I got some handcuffs and chain and made sure she couldn’t get out my en-suite – _had_ to be a bathroom, really, she was puking her guts out for a good day – must have been the vodka she gets through – _and_ she had the trots from the rest, so there's me on clean-up detail every couple hours, in between _her_ trying to pull the radiator out of the wall and swearing all sorts at me, and Sammy killing herself laughing... Keeping Sam off her was the toughest bit of it all, actually..."  
  
"Sorry? You tied your sister to a _wall_ , until she got over her drugs binge?"   
  
Simon remained defensive. "Yeah," he responded flatly.  
  
"Obviously! Where do you even _get_ handcuffs and all? And how long _for_?"   
  
"Bought the chains at Martleys – that big DIY place by Staples Corner," he reminisced idly. "Cuffs were Mom's – probably from a sex shop, or some gag gift. She could probably have got out of them easily, if she'd actually thought for a minute."   
  
"So how long was she there?"   
  
"Oh, only until she stopped bring off her tits and agreed never to touch anything illegal ever again. I'd hoped to get her off spirits too, but she swears a few voddies is vital to fitting in with her friends if she isn't on the hard stuff, so we compromised." A sigh, and he lit another cigarette. Patrick took one too, without thinking, mesmerised. "But it was a tough two days for both of us. Over two and a half, I suppose – it was getting on for bedtime, the last day..."  
  
Patrick coughed – must not be used to smoking any more – just as well, Erin and Sanj would _kill_ him if they knew - "I'm sorry? You casually describe chaining a woman to a wall for nigh on three days, and _don't understand_ why people are scared of you?"   
  
Simon actually blushed, though under the hair it was hard to see, just a hint more orange under the sodium streetlight. "I _had_ to. Look, right, rehab is pretty much the same thing. Just it looks nicer and is way less effective. Never helped Mom in the slightest, for sure. Keep them in a room, lots of jaw, no real incentive not to just stay there in a polite daze until the staff shut up and off you go, same as ever. Didn't want to have to ask Dad about it, thought I might as well speed up the process. Not like anyone else was going to help. _As_ ever. More to the point, it _worked!_ She's at art college, now. And clean." A suggestion of a proud smile, rather like Edwin’s.

"Not _my_ fault if Sammy starts spreading rumours that grow in the telling, and Alex confirms some of them are true... Didn’t even say anything to the bouncers at Berlin – I think I just have naturally scary looming potential...” He waggled his eyebrows, all furry caterpillars, and grinned.

“Seriously, apart from that pusher, when I was amazed I managed to aim well enough to even hit him, I've never hurt anyone in my life! Horrible little weasels, him and Brian... No, no, Steve Astley, he's the one who scared me. Though had been thinking, at least none of 'em have any idea where we live – that’s why Brian turning up at all had freaked me out, even before seeing blood on his shirt – so once I've saved enough – and thank you _most_ kindly for your assistance there – I'll move away and be an upstanding citizen for the rest of my life." He chuckled ruefully. "Sounds much less interesting than the psychopathic master criminal, doesn't it?"  
  
"So you say. I'm keeping my options open on the psycho bit, mind you."  
  
"Fair enough. Another?"   
  
Patrick watched through the window, Simon being served at the bar, and wondered if he was so generous in buying so as people didn't notice that almost all his drinks were plain tonic water or lemonade. Was it conscious?   
  
Simon coalesced onto the bench again. For once, he seemed not to know how to keep the conversation going. Too tired, maybe.   
  
"When did you move to England, then?"   
  
"After Mom died."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be. Oh, that's _harsh_..."  
  
"Really?"   
  
"Where to start? OK, Mom and Dad split shortly after Sammy was born – he pushed off back to England, she stayed near her family in Rayleigh, but then they moved or died. She moved us a lot, after that. Guess she told Dad she was coping, he’d come over most summers. But then her drinking and all got worse; Dad packed her off to rehab but it didn’t work, really. She'd be good at pretending for a while, but usually, soon as Dad left, it was back to me looking after the others. Well, Sammy. Alex got left out, I guess... That carried on until Sammy was about ten, when Dad came over, and Mom’s dramatic overdose attempt that time actually did kill her... I should have hidden the rest of the tablets... Oh, she'd have found some, somewhere, Dad says, but we’d managed for ten bloody years…

“So Dad sorted out the affairs – not much, Mom had gone through most of the money he’d left her – and hauled us over here. Alex and Sammy got inflicted on Cheltenham, me on Harrow, but then I got canned, a few months later they decided they didn’t want Alex back for sixth form – she’d struggled to adjust in time for O-levels, you’d think they’d take that into account, but no – and they _strongly_ suggested Sammy would be better off somewhere else. The feeling was mutual – I hear some jolly-hockeysticks housemistress type told her that here in Farnley Lodge we eat all our rice pudding, and Sammy said no they damn well didn’t, and there was a bit of a standoff…  
  
"Then after various phone calls by Dad and his secretary types – lots and _lots_ of phone calls, Mrs Leverson told me – he thought sod it, they can stay at home and go to Luke’s. Which, to be fair, has worked quite well. That Sullivan guy does have a bit of clue about when to allow a bit of leeway and when to clamp down, even if he _does_ play politics and reputation.  
  
It dawned on Patrick that if that had been a couple years ago, with Simon only a few years older than Alex, Simon himself couldn't be that much more than twenty-one.

"So what do you do now, assuming being an entrepreneur in illicit chemicals isn't taking up all your time?"   
  
"Give me a break. I’ve done a few intern jobs, and I’ve got a brokering job in a bank starting in April, though that might be _deathly_ dull. Trying to save up money to go back to America and start a business – or a charity, maybe.  
  
“Never told anyone else all this. You won't spread it?"   
  
"Who would believe me?"   
  
"Fair point." He giggled suddenly, his bulk shuddering like an amused gorilla. "I admit, I _may_ have threatened Sam with the same treatment as Alex, if she didn't shut it and do her homework, keep her there until she did, but honestly, _anyone_ would, if they had Sammy as their little sister... Seriously, the temptation I've resisted..." He shook his head, mock-sadly.   
  
Having met Sammy a few times in the corridors and in the church hall, an opinionated ginger brat, her voice usually screeching above anyone else's, Patrick chuckled too.   


 

There was no answer on the Connors' phone on Sunday afternoon, and Erin's family certainly weren't the drop-in-any-time types that Kathy's were. And that his parents pretended to be, at least for people they would have invited if only they'd got round to it... Nor any answer on Sunday evening. He took Jessica for a long flight around the northern edge of Barnet, instead, and considered if he could practise flying her at rook there, at least where Barnet Woods dwindled into scrub and fields...   
  
Patrick dragged his heels along the pavement the next morning. He'd not had an argument with Erin yet, their endless debates on politics and everything else not having enough riding on them to count; first time for everything. He didn't see how she _couldn't_ take his ditching her that night personally, but how on earth could he explain?   
  
He supposed, while the drugs might have initiated his link with Simon, that, now, wasn't really important. Or even relevant. And it wasn't like Erin didn't know Simon almost as well as he did, from their evenings at Berlin, long before Patrick had ever come along – _she'd_ once tried to snog him, for Christ's sake! Really, the girl didn't have a leg to stand on; he'd have to tell her so, but it didn't mean he was looking forward to it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has to face Erin.

He was unconsciously dawdling, very nearly late, so he didn't have a chance to say a word before Masey kick-started the class, all about the illusion of love in Twelfth Night – _lovely timing, there_ – but Erin wasn't her usual conscientious self, nor was she giving him any of the sideways looks or giggles at the filthy jokes before the class reached them, both of which he'd come to anticipate and look forward to. Kathy was glaring at him, a questioning look; Sandra just rolled her eyes. He'd have to say _something_ , soon as the lesson was over...  
  
The class bundled their books and papers together. He exited the room first, found his voice. “Did you get home OK, on Saturday?”  
  
Erin looked startled, then recalled her grievance. "Obviously."  
  
“I know, just I didn't like to leave you, especially after the disturbance inside.”  
  
“Didn’t like! Hark at you. Did it, anyway.” That voice, cold, was painful.

“I’m sorry. I was just worried, about him.”

“You'd know, I suppose. Knowing Simon _ever_ so well, helping him get away from the police…”  
  
“Huh? Not more than you do, really!”  
  
“Oh, pull me another! Dumping me to run off with him! How daft do you think I am? How much are you buying off him?”  
  
The shock of the accusation jerked him upright. It meant he could look down on her neat coiffure, so smooth and golden, as he snapped back, "Nothing! I've never bought a thing off him! Bought him a drink, once...”  
  
“Spin me another!” Her voice rose, for once uncontrolled. “You're all matey and running off with Simon the druggie, and you're saying ‘oh no, _you_ don't use’, at all? Yeah, right!”  


“Yeah, cos I don’t!”

“Pull the other one, it’s got knobs on...”

  
"You want my entire drug-using history?" Too close to a hysterical yell, _that_ was, and the other occupants of the corridor all slowed down, all eager to hear good juicy gossip, even if they didn't have the foggiest who he was.  
  
"Yes, I damn well do!"  
  
He looked wildly round for any masters or mistresses – no, _staff_ , no, _teachers –_ before lowering his voice and stating articulately, "A couple spliffs from Claudie, and a few tokes at my tutorial place. That's it. Never bought any myself, nothing, never, except I think two packs of Silk Cut, and if we're counting _all_ drugs now, then cop me guilty to shedloads of booze, and a metric ton of caffeine... _All right_?”  
  
He was bending down so his face was near to hers and his undertone didn't carry so much; she stepped back from him.  
  
“ _If_ you say so. So what was so desperate that you had to run off with him?” _And ditch me_ , the unspoken subtext.  
  
“Did you not see his face?”  
  
“Thought I had. Two eyes, nose, mouth, stupid furry cheeks, the usual.”  
  
“He was white and shaking! Terrified! Look, can we go somewhere quiet?”  
  
Around the corner, they found an empty music room to squat in. Erin sat on the stool, as Patrick perched on the lid of the hard-used upright.  
  
“OK, I was horrible to run away from you. I'm sorry. _Really_. You had Sanj and Andrew with you, though...” He tailed off.  
  
“And you thought _Simon_ _-_ _bloody_ _-_ _Gorecki_ needed an escort? From your good self?”  
  
Sarcastic, chilly still, but a genuine question underneath.  
  
He slumped a few inches.  


“Yes. You're right. Actually, I did.” Firm, calm, only a bit snotty. _Good._

  
Only she wasn't going to take that as an answer, leaning back and folding her arms, one eyebrow raised. _Damn_. How on _earth_ to explain?  
  
A deep breath. His fringe flopped forward as he gazed down at her, a welcome barrier. It reminded him. He found a few words, tried to squeeze them out. "The c, c, c, car crash I was in?"  
  
"Bloke driving, lost it and died? That?"  
  
"Mm. Yes."  
  
"Peter said something. About yobs... thugs? And a name, can't remember."  
  
"Jukie. Yeah, he was the ringleader of the Thuggery. Well, we thought. Local lads causing trouble, any theft, vandalism, blame them... You know the kind of thing. Anyway. Looked like they'd nicked my bike, so I went to investigate their HQ – place they worked – when Pete and Lawrie confirmed they were out. Except, Jukie and another guy came back. _And_."  
  
He hoiked himself back up onto the piano. "I've never told anyone else this bit." A lie; he'd told Andrew, a couple weeks ago, but that was different... He lifted his feet and pushed them against the wall to hold himself in place.  
  
"The other guy tried to knife me, Jukie grabbed the knife and other lad fell... Dead. And then I get pulled along into this car and we end up going all round the country – he was convinced he'd be done for murder if he didn't make it to Ireland, so when he realised he was back near home, he panicked, like I said."  
  
He paused, realising he'd hit upon a truth that might even convince... "He looked just like Simon did. Before he sped up."  
  
Erin said nothing. Neither moved, until she breathed a tiny nod. "Did Simon do it?"  
  
"He says, not." Another breath to calm himself down. "I believe him."  
  
"You know him well enough, you reckon?"  
  
"Apart from at Berlin, he's been at Eyan's on a few cold mornings. I wasn't going to turn down a tea and bacon sarnie! He seemed to like talking to me, s’pose it's quieter than Berlin. You know, I think he's lonely..."  
  
So close to the complete truth. He was proud of that. "We wandered down the High Road, and he talked. I can't say, his life history, but yeah, I believe him. I think he's been exaggerating his scariness, to get a reputation on purpose."  
  
"You reckon? He's just a big cuddly teddy bear?" Her trademark sarcasm was back in place.  
  
Finally, a chance to bring it up – _not_ that he was jealous, exactly - "You'd know. Quite insistent on trying to snog him, last year, I hear?"  
  
And _hah_ – she was blushing, for about the first time ever. "He was trying to snog _me!_ And of course we were about ten feet from the doorman we'd just told I was Alex..."  
  
"But he could tell your heart wasn't in the protests?"  
  
A tease. Finally he'd got the hang of those. Or... would it sound insulting?  
  
She grinned at him – mates again, phew – _surprised at how much he cared_ – or _would_ it be the same, now? "Well. I'm not saying I _definitely_ wouldn't have..."  
  
"But smooth-shaven and slender is more your kind of thing?" Deadpan. Andrew would be proud.  
  
She looked him up and down. "It'll do." She added, to ensure he didn't feel too awkward, "I suppose."  
  
A make-up kiss would have improved the scene immensely, but in the circs – large window in the door, mainly – he was perfectly content with her reaching for his hand. He held hers as they pushed back outside.  
  
Walking companionably down the corridor, she added, mock-casually, "Just so you know, if I _do_ find out you've been buying gear off anyone, or lying about what you've used, you're toast."  
  
He relaxed – on those counts, at least, he’d be safe. "One of those disgusting potted meat spreads to go on it, more like. They always look like mashed brains to me. Or worse."  
  
"That's you, then. Serious. I always wondered what Gentlemen's Relish was..."  
  
"Anchovies, mostly."  
  
Erin laughed, a sound he realised he'd missed. "I should have _known_ you'd know!"  
  
" _Patum peperium_ , it's called officially," he managed to tell her with a straight face and his best aristocratic accent.  
  
"Really? I must mention it to Dad some time, pretend I read it in Larousse..."  
  
"Knowledge from books impressive, from horribly posh boyfriend unwelcome?" He had, in fact, once read the label on a tin of the stuff from Fortnum's, but wasn't going to mention that.  
  
"Working Men's Clubs provide educational opportunities for the proletariat, to help them overthrow the bourgeoisie..."  
  
"Surely if your parents own their house – not rented, is it? - they _are_ the bourgeoisie...?"  
  
"You'd think. Apparently the petit bourgeoisie is practically the lumpenproletariat under Thatcher – it's the _actual_ elite you need to watch out for and throw out..."  
  
"You know, my dad would say the same thing."  
  
"Uh- _huh_."  
  
"Seriously. I mean, yeah, a bit more established in the home-owning classes – what's a mere 600 years between friends? - but the elite, those people who are in the Cabinet, the bankers, the big cheeses... Not much chance."  
  
"Thatcher managed it."  
  
"The elite needed a figurehead to put up against Callaghan. Weak chins and 'lovely vowels' - he pronounced it _levv-ly voe-ells –_ were _quaite_ out of fashion in '79. Or so Uncle Alex told my pa – He's a fairly-big fromage in the Treasury, so they argue over this stuff a lot."  
  
"Like your own family version of Yes, Minister?"  
  
"Hmm. Yes! A bit. I bet Uncle Alex – he’s Ma's brother – would love to be Sir Humphrey – though he's not that level..."  
  
"More Bernard?"  
  
"Oh, higher than that – two-thirds of the way above him towards Humphrey, I'd guess. Not that Pa's even a Parliamentary Under-Secretary – the juniorest of minsters, the acronym PUS is what Cabinet think of them, so I'm told – a PPS is unlikely, even. Not in with the right people – or the ‘nylon pin-striped wide-boys’, if you ask Pa... Still, gives him time to focus on the constituency."  
  
"Farming Committee, you said to Fergus?"  
  
"He's attended it a few times, given its something he knows about, but he's practically a new boy still, no actual invite as yet. Maybe in the next couple years, but he's not really bothered – being one of those pain-in-the-arse back-benchers is his secret ambition, I suspect."  
  
"A Tory Dennis Skinner, with better hair?"  
  
"Anyone's got better hair... True, I think. Though Pa _is_ a bit vain about his. Full head of, even if it is getting more salt than sand... Quite snippy, he got, when he found Ma was watching the Six O’Clock News less for the news and more for 'that handsome young Jeremy'... Can't see the attraction, myself."  
  
"You know, you do look a bit like a young Paxo..."  
  
"Oh, come on!" It wasn't a great impersonation, but she recognised it, which was all that mattered. The five-minute break was long over – he must be twenty minutes late for French by now – at least it was Mouchie, one absence would hardly be noticed – best just to leave it...  
  
"Have you got a free now?" he asked her. "Not being responsible for _you_ taking up skiving..."  
  
"Don't worry, I'm free until after lunch – though this is usually when I do my History reading. D'you know anything about the Spanish Civil War?" He shook his head. "Me neither. What about your French? I don't want to be a bad influence on you..." He guessed she was a bit embarrassed at her reaction to feeling neglected, though he suspected her trust in him might never be total again. He got the _distinct_ impression he was on his final chance.  
  
"You're not. One conversation lesson more or less won't make much difference – though I'll go spend an extra half hour chatting to Sem, if you like. Andrew'll tell me if I missed anything."  
  
And indeed, Patrick was duly informed of how to say 'I have lost my contact lens' in French, which might possibly come in handy, he supposed, should he one day ever require glasses.  


 

  
  
  
The last packet. Patrick wondered, whether he'd see Simon again after this, and decided that he'd miss the guy if he didn't. Though he'd be around Berlin, surely, last week notwithstanding?  
  
And indeed, there he was, sipping from his mug of tea as impassively as ever, but no, _not_ his usual self.  
  
"Tea, please, Sem. And breakfast. I'll get you one, if you like, Simon?"  
  
"No. No, thanks." _Twitchy._  
  
"What's up? Already eaten?"  
  
"No. Look, I should tell you first – I'm not buying any more. Hope you didn't have plans for the dosh."  
  
Startled, Patrick sat back, silent, murmuring only when Sem plonked his tea in front of him and wiped a spillage off the white formica. As disasters went, this shouldn't be one. He didn't, after all, have any vital plans for the cash.  
  
"How come?" Simon's American turns of phrase must be rubbing off on him.  
  
"You know I wanted out of the business, right? Yeah, well. I've got enough for flights back to the States, somewhere to live for a month or two, just about, but then last week... Anyway, I spoke to the bank where I'm supposed to start working next month, gave them some flannel, and they've agreed I can join their training scheme in New York instead of London. I mean – there's nothing tying me to Carolina, any more. So I'll head off in a couple days."  
  
"Right. I see." A long swig of tea while he collected his thoughts. "What about Alex?"  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"The threats to get back at her."  
  
"Oh. Probably idle. Nothing's been mentioned for the last year, really. Besides, she's got herself a wealthy boyfriend now – Piers – horribly posh, he is, generations of riches, you can just tell, classy tailored suits and all. She's reasonably respectable, now, won't draw attention to herself. And let's face it, Brian's going to be keeping a low profile and not coming near Highgate."  
  
"He _survived_?"  
  
"Didn't anyone tell you? Suppose they wouldn't. It was in the paper, though. He'll probably be out of hospital next week."  
  
Was _that_ why Simon was leaving in such a hurry? Well, if Simon thought Alex could look after herself, he was probably right. It wasn't like she hung round dodgy nightclubs in north London. _Shit._  
  
Should he persuade Erin and the gang to avoid Berlin? He could come clean, but he really didn't like to think of how Erin would take that. In fact, he knew. It would be the end of their relationship. A voice in his head spoke coolly. _Would you actually mind that?_ And he was surprised that his reaction surprised him: _yes, I really would_.  
  
Patrick forced his face to remain impassive. "Oh. Well. Good luck in New York, mate."  
  
"Thanks. I'm looking forward to it; a fresh start. Dad was pleased, for the first time ever, I think."

  
"He _wants_ to get rid?"

  
"Well, not as such. But, looking at it from his point of view, he got kicked out when Sammy was born – to be honest, we all suspect he isn't Sammy's dad anyway – he and Mom were on the outs before she turned up. Mom kept us all away from him, he couldn't find us, for big chunks of the next ten years, until the legal eagles tracked us down and when he _made_ it over, Mom died. And then he gets three screwed-up Yank kids to deal with, our schools couldn't cope, I get arrested a few times... You can see why he'd like to go back to his nice peaceful bachelor lifestyle. Well, as peaceful as home gets with Sammy about.. "

  
"Ah."

  
"Weird, to think he's been around half my life, now. Six years when we were young, nearly four now. Still doesn't feel like it. Keep thinking I need to go wake Mom up, make her eat, sneak cash off her to buy food for us... Sorry, I'm getting maudlin. I should have that breakfast, I'll get one for you too, least I can do... "  
  
Stunned to realise Simon was not even two years older than himself, Patrick agreed. "You ever been to New York before?"

  
"Only for a stopover. You?"

  
"Never been to America."

  
"It's... different. Obviously. Its not just the accent, it’s the whole culture... This whole idea of who your family was, don't get ideas above your station... Doesn't exist there, or not enough for me to notice, which is good enough for me. You don't need a history... "  
  
"They like English accents, I hear."

  
Simon grinned, and Patrick realised it was the first time he'd seen the chap properly relaxed. "We shall see!" Patrick suspected he'd be charming a string of American girls in no time.

"Anyhow, I'd best be off, so good luck, bin that last package of yours, don't spend all your earnings at once. Regards to Erin."

  
He pulled himself out of the seat, shook Patrick’s hand, and waved to Sem on his way out. Simon's motion once outside struck Patrick as odd, and then he realised; Simon was hopscotching along the rectangular paving slabs. No wonder the guy didn't feel the need to indulge in drugs.


	23. Chapter 23

After Simon had gone, Patrick took a deep swig of his tea and thought. No more drug dealing. Much as he liked the idea of his savings, now, even with a third-pretending-to-be-a-half passed to Peter – they'd tacitly agreed, Lawrie would be too much of a liability even to _mention_ any selling – he wasn't going to risk trying to find a buyer for the last bit. Cut his losses – no, there _were_ no losses, just getting out of the falling market, ooh, call _him_ Nigel Lawson...   
  
Sem wandered over. “Your friend has gone?” Practising his English: be polite and encourage.   


“Yes. Moving abroad, to America, next week.”

 

“Oh.” He didn’t move.

 

“Why d’you ask?”  


Sem hovered, quivering, even, and needlessly re-tucked his tea-towel into his belt. "He didn't give you any money, this time?"   


Startled, Patrick agreed, no, then, disingenuously, "what do you mean?”  


“You give him little things, he gives you money. Then, you relax.” He breathed out, illustrating. “I'm not stupid, you know.”

  
True enough, and that colloquial phrase in English, his speaking _was_ coming on.   
But defensive was the only way to go. “What _do_ you mean?”

  
“I mean...” He sighed, and his tone was more-in-sadness, lapsing back into the more comfortable French, “I mean, I need to pay the deposit for my course by Friday, or I lose my place. It is two hundred pounds I need. And so, you have I think that kind of cash, you don't want anyone to know...”

  
_Rumbled._

  
“Didn’t you just say, you noticed me _not_ getting any cash this time?”

  
“Ah, I am right!” Sem was blushing, regretful, _obviously I don't mean to be blackmailing you, but needs must... “_ So you have the other thing in your bag – no, I don't want that, is bad stuff. You throw it away, you hear me? You give me the money, today, then it is end of problem for both of us.”   
  
It occurred to Patrick that the last envelope _was_ still in his bag from where he'd shoved it a fortnight earlier. He didn't want to get roped into Danegeld, but on the other hand, using ill-gotten gains for good, it seemed strangely right...   
  
“Two hundred?”   


“Yes. Actually, one hundred-and-eighty...”

  
“You show me the paperwork. I'll come with you after school and take you to pay – helping you understand their English, see? And this is _it –_ the rest of the fees is your problem, and I'll have ditched the rest long before then. Nothing you could tattle about...”  
  
“I would never...” Sem clearly couldn't believe his mad scheme might work.

 

Patrick feared the guy – only a couple years older than he, surely? - might panic, chicken out, who knew what _that_ might lead to – and called over to Eyan, "I'll go with Sem to register for his course, this afternoon. He's got all the deposit, now. Make sure he fills the forms in correctly, kind of thing."   
  
“That's very kind of you, mate! Real kind. Sem, check if he needs any more tea, on us.”   
  
And thus it was that after History, his early afternoon, finishing at two-thirty, Patrick returned to the café.  


"Got all your paperwork, Sem?"   


Sem showed him all the forms – yes, he _was_ twenty, good guess, and then Patrick counted the money, a pile of fifties and some crumpled tens, and pulled the roll of twenties out of his trouser pocket when Eyan was busy in the back of the kitchen. “All present and correct. Let's go. Vincent Square, wasn't it?”

  
  
They took the bus down to Victoria, Thirties semis and Art Deco terraces giving rise to Victorian mansion flats around St John’s Wood. It went speeding down the Finchley Road, hitting traffic as they approached Regent's Park – shame useful buses never went down the side where you could see the Zoo, giraffes visible over the fence, having a good munch, like yellowed lost cows. Waiting at traffic lights on Baker Street - "home of Sherlock Holmes, the detective, he explained to Sem. No, he's not real though the address is. I heard it's an Abbey National, now. A bank, sort of."

 

Once across the Marylebone Road, Patrick admired the Georgian rooftops and blackened Regency marble and limestone, with the odd white building where the walls had been cleaned since the Clean Air Acts. London must have been stunning when those avenues were new-builds. Perhaps over the next few years the streets would become cream and white again? He envisaged the London of twenty years in the future – _2015_ – all shiny and clean? Or slowly going grey again? He couldn't imagine the Houses of Parliament, for example, being anything other than black; he might _know,_ in his head, that Gothic architecture didn't mean dark colours and gloom, but neo-Gothic in cheerful golden Cotswold stone sounded all kinds of wrong.  
  
More sitting in exhaust fumes as they came alongside Selfridges. Patrick found himself continuing being tour guide, for once unable _not_ to speak. "I was _terribly_ upset when I was about four and going to be taken there for tea. Because they didn't. Sell fridges. Though you'd think, for a treat, it would be worse if they did. Like going to a London Electricity Board showroom...  
  
"And there's Marble Arch. Rather gaudy and pointless, I always think; you can’t even drive under it like you can the Arc de Triomphe. That wall is the back of Buckingham Palace – the Queen's back garden. No, never, but my father attended a do there, once. Finally, here's Victoria Station, so it's a few minutes' walk, now. Look, there's the cathedral! I know it's not so old, but it's a lovely building. All over coloured mosaics...”   
  
“Westminster Abbey?”   
  
“No, that's down the road – by Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Can you see those little spires, down there? This is the Catholic one – not C of E – Church of England -”  


“Ah. _Il y a deux types principaux de Christianisme_ ,” Sem chanted, clearly quoting from a school book.   
  
“Exactly. The Abbey belongs to the other lot. No kings or queens buried _here_. I do love these red-brick mansion flats, all twisty white-paint carvings and squiggly wrought iron...” Walking around the back of Victoria Station, Patrick pointed out features of Westminster Cathedral and gargoyles on the luxurious apartments around, playing tour guide. _Helping Sem practice English_ , that's what it was. “Right, we're on Vauxhall Bridge Road – ooh look, tropical fish! If I didn't have a hawk, I'd rather like some of these… A shoal of those silver ones, and a few of those bottom-feeders. Left, ahead there...”   
  
Evading the Westminster schoolboys in Vincent Square, streaming away from a games lesson, they found the admin office inside the blocky brick college.

 

  
"Ah, you did find the money! That's good! I thought you were going to be one of our no-shows," the permed retirement-age receptionist said, all stretched milk-white skin, beaming over her wire-rimmed spectacles. She stamped Sem's forms and put them into her safe, bar one page she countersigned and returned to him. His envelope of notes was taken, counted, fingers rubbed on a damp sponge, counted again. She dipped her chin curtly, put the money in a separate safe, and wrote out a receipt, her blue fountain-pen curlicues recognising the significance of the event.   
  
“Can I just check your contact details, dear? Term starts in September, probably the fourth, at six p.m. for enrollment. Turn up or else. Now, I shouldn't be telling you this, dear, but after the deposit, we're a lot more _understanding,_ if you need extra time to pay the rest of the fees. There are always students needed to wait on tables in the evenings, you understand.”   
  
“Oh, yes, miss! But I hope, it will be fine, I will have the money... I work in restaurant now, for man called Alan...”

  
“Ah, yes. A glowing reference, which is a rarity from him; Allie doesn't suffer fools gladly, believe you me.” She went on to comment that Sem's English had improved greatly, while Patrick explained the idiom. “Oh yes, Allie was here, over fifteen years ago now. The second of my students to invite me to dinner in his own restaurant, he was. It's been twelve now; I _count_.” Her stare was pointed.

  
“If I make my own restaurant, I will invite you have dinner, I promise, Mrs…?”   


“Miriam. I will look forward to it. _And_ to your shifts in our on-site restaurant in the meantime.” She half-winked as she dismissed them.

  
On their way back to Pimlico for the Victoria line, not wanting to be stuck on a cramped stationary bus in rush hour, Sem queried of Patrick, “Was she... trying, wanting…?” He resorted to gestures.   


“Yes. She really was flirting with you, but I bet she does that to all the new students.”   
  
"Flirting." Sem memorised the new, vital word. "Ah." Was he slightly disappointed?  
  
A change at Warren Street, _not_ Euston, and they made to take their leave as Sem alighted at Belsize Park.   
  
"Thank you. I am sorry for..."   
  
"But you're not, are you?"   
  
Regretfully, via a rueful sheepish expression, Sem conceded he wasn't. "But do not worry. I will say nothing and ask never more." Confused by the negative conditional, he repeated the sentence in grammatical French as Patrick changed his mind, deciding to get out also and head up to the birds. Clear his head, in the fresh air, before it got dark.  
  
"And I will ditch the stuff – that last bit – _you_ know – and then the lump is all gone, and I'll be a fine respectable citizen for the rest of my life." He added, though he couldn't have said why, "So you don't need to worry. And Simon isn't doing any of.. _t_ _hat_ , any more, either."   
  
"Freedom, from such things, to all of us."   
  
An odd way to put it, Patrick thought, but strangely correct.  



	24. Chapter 24

Patrick hopped onto the short bus that trundled up to the north-west corner of the Heath, and jumped off it twenty minutes later. Orange light was starting to come through the trees to his left, and at that angle he could tell the tiny buds were starting to open, finally, blocking more of the sun, making the branches look fuzzy.  He went in search of Jill, and caught sight of her in the lowering sunlight on the far side of the courtyard, sleeveless jacket making her silhouette distinctive.

“Hi there! Wanted to get away from home and essays for a bit. Anything I can do?”  
  
Jill turned to him, startled. “What are you doing here so late? It's our day for visitors, I tell you! Her ladyship's condescended to drop in, too. Back from Amsterdam, she says. Could have done without – the woman had the cheek to slag off Steve's accounting, would you believe! As if his numbers would be anything other than dead honest and perfect! She's off in the main building now, so you can avoid her – Stella could do with another flight, if you're up for it? Was going to look at the wings of this new merlin, don't know what he got caught up in. Some net.”

She sighed. “Poor old Steve; he just crumples. If he could handle bossy types having a go at him, he'd be having a well-paying job, being something in the City, not be just coming here, every hour he can wangle a couple quid for.”

Jill might be unreasonably exempting herself from the category of _bossy type_ , but she didn't have a go at anyone who couldn't fight back.

“Practically in tears he was, so I let him fly all the smaller birds all afternoon. _Claiming too many expenses,_ my fanny! Who paid for her latest car, I'd like to know?”

“Who does? She funds the place, didn’t you say?”

“Oh, yes, we’re beholden to her for swooping down from on high and bestowing cash once in a blue moon for structural stuff, but mainly she gives us a monthly budget and by the miracle of accounting and blagging and making-do, Steve enables to stick to it. I wouldn’t mind if she were stretching it to fund the place, but she’s not – she’s _loaded._ But expects birds to be managed on a shoe-string and us to be grateful all the time. Stingy benevolence, I call it, but then,” _mumble,_ “she’s that type.”

“What was that? What’s her name?”

“Mowt? That's Maud with a Dutch accent, _she_ says. D sounding like a T at the end. Though she's always sounded pretty damn English to _me_. Been living back in Holland for the last few years, she says, which is why she only blesses us with her royal visits every so often.  
  
After a fine hour entertaining the birds, cooing and chatting to them – kestrels made fine conversationalists – Patrick had relaxed again. He'd go home, catch some telly – _Dallas_ might have to take priority over _The Bill_ , but he'd invested in a three-pack of videotapes... _What could you possibly want to record that needs twelve hours of tape, son?_ his father enquired more than once, failing to see the merits of modern technology.   
  
“See you in the morning, Patrick. I'll want your opinion on whether the merlin'll be fit to release.” 

“Mine? I'm not a vet!”

“Vets don't know any more about birds than me or you. And you've had a merlin; I've only met them briefly. Between us, we’re as expert as any vet bill.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. ‘Night.”

He wandered back towards the gate, turned to see Steve were in the yard for good-byeing too, and saw a figure in the distance. Grey and moving stiffly, she seemed awfully familiar.   
Must be the owner, Maud. You didn’t get many women called Maud, now; it was definitely a grandmotherly sort of name. He didn’t think he’d ever met a Maud before – _Worst Witch_ _presumably Queen Maud’s Land was pronounced like the owner, too –_ and Maudie...

No, _surely_ not. But...

He'd look out for the woman-who-couldn't-be-Maudie, in the morning. Must be his guilt-sense tingling, making him jump to conclusions. Those sort of coincidences didn’t happen.  
  
He arrived home in time for dinner – stew and dumplings, home-made dumplings, _nice one, Ma_. She did let on, self-deprecatingly, that the stew was courtesy of Mr Sainsbury, with some added carrots and a couple rashers of bacon. His mother was really enjoying the freezer they had in Hampstead; all the mod cons in fact, central heating and fitted carpets in particular, during the winter...

Patrick and his mother ended up chatting quite companionably over the food, discussing London life and travel with adult detachment. He had to confess, the Tube accident back in October had put him off the Bakerloo somewhat, the stopping-short destination of Wembley Park now sounding ominous, not just associated with bands and the inferior populist entertainment of football. Mrs Merrick admitted to admiration of his mastery of the local bus network. "I know real Londoners zip gaily everywhere on the buses, but I still far prefer the Underground, myself. Warmth while you wait – unless going north of here – and one knows where they are going! Unless, of course, they change their minds at Camden Town…"

He agreed – Golders Green and beyond, where the platforms were above ground, felt much more suburban and, covered in graffiti, _distinctly_ inferior. Ditto Kilburn and Willesden Green, around the latter of which always hung a miasma of menace, shiny new Jubilee branding notwithstanding. Though as Kathy said, at least the IRA weren’t a consideration, locally – _not crapping on their home turf..._  
  
Feeling oddly companionable towards his mother for once – why _did_ MPs have such ridiculous hours, debating vital issues whilst half-cut after expenses-paid dinners? - he stayed up until realising it was nearer eleven than ten, whereupon he hastily changed for bed.   
  
On the following damp morning, he was well on the way to the bird rescue when, slipping his hand into his bag to extract a book to read on the bus, he felt the tell-tale bump of the last cocaine wrap through the thick manila envelope. He recoiled in horror. By the time the bus progressed from the next stop, however, he had calmed his breath; he would ditch the thing into the nearest bin before he got to school – there weren't any bins on the Heath, whether down to bomb-planters or the council not being arsed to empty them, he didn't know. Problem solved, and yes, he _would_ be saying some extra prayers after and promising to live a godly life forever.

Well, _legal_ – he wasn't aiming to match the Church's expectations when it came to lacking lustful thoughts, for example. And, _all right_ , he didn't regret any underage drinking. Even if he were 18 in less than a month, he'd still be applying his amended Railcard that claimed he was 21, for the purposes of clubbing. _Was_ buying drinks for others illegal? Probably, technically. But _actual_ crime, that anyone cared about, he certainly was going to avoid. _And_ thank whoever that he hadn't been caught by anyone more dangerous than Sem, whom he’d had to be blunt with about not being paid back – yes, he’d accept dinner, sometime. A decade per packet, _no, that seemed cheap –_ a rosary each; _six, yes_ , he could do that...   
  
Book untouched, he wandered into the yard. No-one in evidence. Once he ensured the section of shed for Stella the eagle was clean, he moved onto the hawks. In the distance, he could hear Steve sounding distressed. Not that it ever took much to distress Steve; it wasn't that the chap had learning difficulties or anything – sharp as anything with the accounts – but _coping_ with stuff, anything going wrong, he just couldn't handle it. Which, Jill said, was why he worked here for peanuts rather than for ten times that, in some high-rise office. Or as Steve himself put it, _I can do numbers. Just can't hack people. They lie. Birds don’t._   
  
Patrick stepped out of the shed to see, but Jill had got there first – _phew_ – and was berating the other voice.  
  
It sounded almost familiar. He looked more closely – anyone shouting at Steve just wasn't playing cricket, even if it _was_ the mysterious owner. And froze.  
  
The yellow jacket, clearly foreign, was new. Not tweed. Hair in two buns on each side of her head, made the woman look somewhat European. But there was no denying it. Miss Maudie Culver had appeared, just as vivid and more unwelcome than Hamlet's father's ghost...  
  
His father might have moseyed over to say hello, all charm; _he_ certainly wasn’t about to. Though given Mr Merrick had had to identify what he thought would be Patrick's body, even his genial pa might pass on this one. He stared, to be certain, hoping against hope - but the snippy body language, the self-righteousness – it was all there.  
  
Sickened, he decided to leave for the day. He'd done just about everything necessary, and if Jill had any sense – _she did, in spades –_ she'd send Steve out to exercise some birds so as to let him calm down. Patrick retreated to the entrance, past the entry stand, still looking back towards Jill and Maudie, inch-high shapes by the stables; he stumbled on a pebble and fell, onto a vintage car that had been not so much parked as arrogantly abandoned, blocking the driveway.  
  
A lovingly-polished Bentley convertible, roof down. An unattractive shade of cream with bright orange wheel arches and running boards, but otherwise a most desirable car, if old cars were your thing. It had to be Maudie's. To be sure, he’d need to check inside, find something – instinctively he reached to click open the glove box. His gloves were still on, they’d hide any fingerprints...   
  
Nothing much in there. But compulsively searching led him to the ring-bound A to Z in the door pocket, and it _was_ labelled Culver, in neat biro capitals. He nearly dropped it in his shock at his conclusion being confirmed. In his haste to slide it back in place, he banged his elbow on the window handle.  
  
He cursed, rubbing where a bruise would appear shortly. When the pain didn’t subside rapidly, he rummaged in his bag for that miracle tincture Jill had given him for any injury that didn't quite merit A &E. Erin had scoffed and said it was pure placebo, but its heady scent of flowers and alcohol certainly _smelt_ like it was doing him good.  
  
Returning the small bottle to his holdall, he felt the long manila envelope he needed to discard. Did it have any fingerprints on it? Probably, but Peter's skilfully-wrapped packet inside certainly _didn't._ No more thoughts passed through his brain until after he'd opened the glove box again, seen the large gap down the side, and tipped the last of his ill-gotten crystals into said space, nudging the clingfilm ball down with the envelope. He considered adding some paper with a name – _Steve Astley_ , Simon had said – but _no_ , that would lead to more detailed investigations, questioning, nothing he wanted to be a part of... He ran, away from it all, to catch the bus to school.   
  
What should he say, to whom? Lying, that he'd seen Maudie with drugs, seemed far too risky. Which meant _not_ the police – a mere sight of someone from the past seemed far too weak to bother them with. He resigned himself to simply leaving it, a dangling plot thread, or perhaps something that might, one day, make the woman sweat?

That afternoon, the plods doing their regular school drop-in-and-cosy-chat, usually good for a free biro or boiled sweet, gave him inspiration.   


  
“Pa?”

“Yes, my son?” It was rather tedious, his father's jocular phrases, but he secretly liked this one.

“You know the paper said the police were asking about that stabbing, at that nightclub?”

“You didn't see anything, you said?”

“Oh, yeah, no. Just heard yelling and people saying to leave, so we did. Can't help there, I'm afraid.”

“Mm. _But_?”

“Well, the police came to school yesterday, too. And people are saying it was a drugs thing, some dealer was being ripped off, and they wanted to know where that guy got his stuff from... The... _wholesaler_ , I guess?”

“Right. I don't follow, what does this have to do with you?” Anthony's tone was carefully neutral, the one he used when first listening to his constituents' concerns.  
  
“Oh, it doesn't! Don't worry, Pa. Really, _not_. But, obviously, drug wholesaler, it brought up the whole hoo-ha with the Thuggery and Miss Culver and all.”

“I suppose it would.”

“Yes. Well, I was at the bird place this morning...” He trailed off, not knowing how to start, though of course he was _starting_ with the truth, before lying his head off. Or just, lying by omission… “OK. The boss, I've always heard about, but she's never been there and I didn't even know her name. She's been abroad, apparently.”

“Go on.”

“Right. Well, the other day Jill said the boss was back. She wasn't happy, Jill wasn't, I mean. Called her 'Mowt' which apparently was a Dutch name.”

His father tried to look intelligent.

“So then, today, I saw her car by the gate – a nice vintage Roller-type thing – and then I saw _her_ in the distance, and she looked kind of familiar – and then I realised, Mowt is Maud with a Dutch accent, it sounds like a T at the end... It's definitely her...”

“Maudie Culver?”

“Yes.”

His father didn't say anything, remaining calmly impassive, so Patrick felt obliged to continue, “So, just thinking, _big_ coincidence, police looking for a big-time drug dealer, and then one we know pops up down the road... I mean, it's _probably_ not connected, but, like the police said, would have been better if they'd known earlier about the pigeon lot...”  
  
“You weren't to blame for Cyril Clark's death.”  
  
“Was that his surname? We just knew him as Jukie – though someone _did_ tell me his name was Cyril...”  
  
“It was an accident.”  
  
“Sort of. Semi-suicidal panic, more like. _I_ think he was willing to turn himself in, you know, during the night, then I fell asleep – we were taking turns – and then he realised there was no way to catch a ferry, thought I'd done it on purpose – he got angrier and sped up... Yeah.” Patrick shrugged, palms up in front of him.  
  
“I _see_. Even so, though, the decision to run and the one to drive so stupidly were both on him, not you. He'd probably have escaped with a suspended sentence for manslaughter, you know. _Actually_ , if he'd played his cards right and not had a record, we could be looking at a medal for bravery...”

“By play cards right, you mean be the son of the local MP, rather than leader of the local low-lifes?”  
  
“Hardly. No, you're right, it _would_ have been different if it had been you rather than him, though we'd have kept it quiet, not looked for any recognition.” Patrick nodded, vigorously. “But his grandmother said he was bright, could speak well when he wanted... shame he'd gone for a job that led him further astray, really. Poor lad, though I really _can't_ properly forgive him for scaring us to death. _Domine dirige nos_... Meanwhile, as you say, bit of a coincidence Maudie turning up again just as local drug dealers are having disagreements. Tell you what, I'll have a word with the police, just so we can have it off our consciences, either way?”  
  
“Thanks, Pa.” He kept his voice quiet, appropriate given the subject, but he knew who _he_ blamed for Jukie's death.

  
With that, he had to be satisfied. The temptation to hang around the centre more than usual that week was strong and needed to be resisted, as did the urge to ask his father and Jill questions. He soothed the desire by reading the local paper and by going over to Erin's as much as possible. On the Monday, his next shift, he’d go to the birds. Jessica enjoyed his attentions in the meantime – she was fit as anything, now. He’d let her fly at Easter, when it was definitely warm enough, maybe.  



	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick turns eighteen.

A bleary-eyed Patrick reached the birds’ courtyard at seven-thirty on the Monday morning. He prayed he would encounter Jill and no-one else, in which he was lucky. Jill appeared uncharacteristically excited, rocking onto the toes of her steel-capped boots. Patrick hoped that meant Maudie had gone away again.

"Guess what happened yesterday? Actually, _don't_. Don’t bother. More important, right, that job? Doing bird demos? You still interested?" Jill came to her key point.   
  
"Hell, yes!" It was the easiest question he'd been asked in ages.   
  
"Oi! Mind your language, mate. You'll have to set a good example to our youth. Show off the birdies and educate them with your erudite lecturing. Lots of your big words, please."  
  
He knew she was winding him up, mostly. Four months earlier he would have felt insulted; now he sensed that wasn't really her intent, and accepted it as a fair price for his place in the staff. Though lecturing, that was _public speaking_ – he couldn't believe that he was happily taking on a job requiring not just clear speech but also responsibility for sprogs – _like what you've done for months at Luke's hall, you divot –_ he really _had_ grown up in the last six months. A thought wafted in, unwanted – _Claudie would be proud_. He didn't like thinking he cared what she thought – though in the depths of his heart he had to admit that he did, a bit. He'd send her a postcard again, soon.   
  
He'd received a card from Claudie a couple weeks ago, addressing him as 'un ami', my just-a-friend, and accepted it in relief as the best possible outcome. Given he was, no doubt, going to be packed off to France again for much of the summer, a month in Paris hanging out with Claudie and J-P could be unexpectedly fun. He'd miss Erin, of course – or perhaps she could come too, for a bit? It wasn't like he'd be doing anything inappropriate with Claudie – been there, done that, _never_ again – though Erin might worry... Though she didn’t know, unless Andrew had _said_ … Maybe he and Andrew could both go – no, J-P and Andrew, leaving him and Claudie, no. Moving on from that thought, could Kathy come too? Like a repeat of the Twelfth Night weekend. Samir probably couldn't, not for another eighteen months...

He guessed Sandra wouldn't be able to afford to get to Paris even if they crashed over at Claudie’s flat, and figured, not for the first time, that friendship across financial barriers was never going to last. Worse than with him and the high-rollers at his previous schools: _he_ could splurge on an event occasionally, show willing, Sanj really couldn't. Which sucked, actually. He'd offer to pay, but aside from opening up questions as to the source of excess funds, he vaguely grasped that she wouldn't accept it. Receiving tea and the odd bun, being in polite unmentioned deficit when it came to rounds of drinks – _that_ sort of financial disparity could be ignored in a friendship. A holiday – _not._ Different, entrenched, worlds... He recalled two of the Arab boys at school trying to gloss over their number of servants at home, both swearing that in their countries ' _everyone has maids_ '.   
  
' _Do the maids have maids_?' a wag called out, a question which did not compute.   
  
"Penny for them? Erin had asked, settling down next to him in the common room, as he'd shoved Claudie’s postcard back into his bag.   
  
"Not worth it."   
  
"That's the special cheap price, for yours. Inflation made most thoughts 10p in the Budget."   
  
"Right. Clearly why I never understood politics."   
  
They chuckled together. She brought out a daft, silly side in him he hadn't known he had.   
  
"Course not. _You_ got raised a Tory."   
  
He felt nervous again. Would politics split them up so soon? "And what do Tories do? According to you _or_ your dad?"   
  
"Touché. Dad's explanation, right: Labour think its better to give everyone what they need, even if a few get benefits or whatever they shouldn't. Tories think it's better to give out as little as possible, just in case someone gets something they shouldn't, even if lots of people suffer. " She looked at him curiously.  
  
“What _do_ the Tories say? Not that, I'm betting.”   
  
He considered. What had he gleaned from the conversations adults had around him, that he'd usually switched off from, once they stopped discussing hawks or horses or anything sensible?

“They'd say, more like, supporting independence? Letting people earn more and keep it leads to more jobs, which is the only way people throughout history have ever become more prosperous." He stretched for a better explanation. "It's like that _give a man a fish, he eats for a day, teach him to fish, he's fed for life_ thing. What happens when Labour runs out of fish to give?"   
  
"There's loads of fish! Just the rich don't want to admit they've got them. Thatcher's lot aren't teaching people to fish, anyway, they’re cutting down on giving them fish, and then closing the fishing... factories."   
  
" _Fishing factories?_ " He raised an amused eyebrow.   
  
"Ports, then. OK, the mining towns... Think this metaphor might be reaching breaking point…"

“You think?” He grinned at her.  
  
Sandra and Kathy wandered over. "Wotcha talking about? Good joke?"   
  
"Not really, Sanj. The price of fish. _Yes, really_ ," she added, as Patrick corpsed beside her.   
  
"You two are bonkers. Oh, don't get all sappy at me again, I'll be sick."   
  
Erin reached over and, deliberately, kissed Patrick on the forehead. Sandra and Kathy made the obligatory retching noises. Patrick tried to look nonchalant but actually, he was rather touched. He saw that she noted his tiny smile, but to be sure, he reached over and took her hand, hidden by the table, so the others couldn't see.   
  
It wasn't that he never thought about cruder activities with Erin – _many_ a daydream involved Claudie's attic at New Year, only with Erin there instead – but certainly he was in no hurry to get there when getting to know each other – _really_ getting to know, what made each other laugh, or cry, or worried – _not the pretences he and Ginty had had –_ was so pleasurable. And how she responded to his slightest touch, that area between thumb and fingers that she opened when he squeezed, and smiled, carefully looking at anywhere else but him – spread fingers: a metaphor, what _do_ you do English for, Merrick? The thought excited him then had him scared – _not_ being rushed along, again, please? And then remembered he could simply _say,_ to Erin, even in body language if he couldn't speak, and she'd _get_ it..   
  
He wondered where she'd got her quiet confidence on the subject from. Whom, rather... He'd asked Kathy, once, who'd just shrugged, merely suggested a few names of contenders, only one he'd recognised. He'd have to ask the girl.   
  
In the end, she asked him; watching a grainy copy of _Romancing the Stone_ , as the leads finally got together, Erin observed the actress had similar hair to herself.  
  
"I don't think _his_ grizzled look would suit me."  
  
"No." Though as the characters found a bed, she mused, " _That_ could suit you?"   
  
"White sheets?" Fake naivety. On-screen sounds made the context _quite_ clear.   
  
"Have you?"   
  
"Mm. Yes." Less said, the better. "Only twice," he felt compelled to add.   
  
"Ah, Ginty."   
  
" _No_!" She pulled back an inch from him, curious. "Really... We didn't... Not much opportunity, but, really... Heart wasn't in it, I guess." Time to toss the ball back into her court. "You?"   
  
She grimaced, comically. "A couple times. Thought we ought to see what the fuss was about."   
  
"And was it worth it?"   
  
"Well, we were very drunk at the time... don't think we gave it a fair chance."   
  
"Who's we? Anyone I know?” He'd meant for playful, assuming it was no-one he knew at all, but she went beetroot. Shamefaced. He hadn't seen _that_ before. " _What?_ Or rather, _who_?"  
  
She looked down as she muttered, "Kieran."  
  
"Seriously? He laughed, let his head fall back, and chuckled more. "What were you thinking? I mean – he's nice enough, but…" Her abashed face mixed with her refusal to feel guilt seemed to him hilarious, and he couldn’t stop chortling.  
  
"Oh, I _know_! Daft footie-head, lacking _all_ gorm... But like you say, there's no malice in him. It was a party last summer, we drank, I'd recently ditched Craig – you wouldn't know him, he moved, but he was a bit... too... Entitled. I'm not a bit of meat!"  
  
"My cute little lamb-chop," he murmured, and she slapped his hand down.   
  
"We've known each other since we were four, he's a good egg, if he actually uses his mind for anything other than football. It seemed like a good idea at the time... four a.m.… _No regrets_ , anyway," she added defiantly.   
  
"Fair enough." And became uncomfortably aware that an explanation was expected from him. "Er. Did I mention this family friend, Claudie?"   
  
"The French student who lived with you for a year?” He nodded. “Is this a story of being seduced by the exotic older woman? Pure cliché?"  
  
His turn to grimace. "Kinda. It felt more... _sordid_ at the time. All her idea, I just sort of got dragged along, like it or not. And I _didn't_ like, really. Well, apart from the obvious..."  
  
"Right." She seemed to understand. "And the second time? You said, twice?"   
  
"Ah...” He didn’t know how Erin might take this, but a lie was out of the question. “Paris, over Christmas... she'd just been heartbroken, _again_... You and me weren't going out yet!" He excused himself. "It wasn't planned, _quite_ the opposite – me and her had this huge ding-dong about her pressuring me the previous time..."   
  
"Make-up...?"   
  
"Except without the making up bit, I suppose. She offered it as an apology, can you believe? I was horribly hung over – possibly still pissed, actually, given I thought it made sense... I just walked out, after. Puked into the Seine, for ages... God, I'm horrible sometimes..."   
  
"Ah, the romance of Paris!" Her tone was lightly sarcastic, but her arm round him was reassuring, that she knew he hadn't taken it lightly, at all.   
  
He exhaled. "We've sort of moved on, water under the bridge and all... Maybe, sometime, with someone I actually want to be with?" He forced himself to meet her eye.   
  
She gave him that small smile that got him every time, and kissed him. "You're a sentimental sod, aren't you?" The meaning was clear: _Let's. Sometime._  
  


 

Patrick struggled to return his attention to the present, to the bracing air at the top of the Heath, Jill stamping mud off her boots, and shaking straw from her donkey jacket. "Something happened?" he queried.   
  
"Guess.”

He really didn’t want to.

“Oh, don’t bother, you'll never get it. I'll tell you. I come in on Friday, when a police car turns up. And then, the boss gets hauled off by the filth, not just for questioning. Arrested!"   
  
" _No_!" He hoped he sounded sufficiently shocked.   
  
"God's own truth! Handcuffs, and all. Turns out, right, she was working with a bunch of drug-runners. She wasn't in Holland at all, well, not mostly – she's been serving time in Holloway! Eighteen months. They found traces of coke and heroin in her car and the office, so bye-bye goes _her_ parole..."  
  
"Whoa." It was all he could say.

Obviously half of the story was of no surprise to him, but she _had_ been dealing; his framing her turned out to be a mere pointing towards her crimes, and wow, heroin was _nasty_ stuff, no arguing _that_ was just God's way of telling City brokers and lawyers they had too much money, like cocaine... He'd seen too many of the smack addicts lying around the Tube, especially when there'd been a more dodgy batch than usual (the Standard had explained, helpfully), and half of them had collapsed in pools of their luridly-coloured vomit. The world should be thanking him, but no, he knew he'd done the right thing for the wrong reasons, and really, fitting up an elderly woman – hard to say _that_ was of the good...   
  
He'd have to think how to phrase it for Confession. Or was it worth it? Perhaps, if it had turned out all right, did that help?   
  
"Yeah. Not that she did much useful here, but she did inject the money. Occasionally, like wringing it from a rock. I got a call from her accountant this morning, saying that the cash for the day-to-day running costs will be made available to me to manage the place, and he'll explain it all later this week. Swore it was all fine and I couldn't be done for money-laundering."  
  
"Amazing. The place is under your control now, then?"   
  
"Apparently so. No more grumbling about more birds, wasting money on improved housing, generally moaning about money, off her. _Her_ , with her swanky car and her fancy pad in Hampstead." They carried on cleaning out the barn, companionably. "I could kiss whoever grassed her up to the filth, I tell you. Actually, probably not. Bitter junkies, most like."   
  
Patrick managed to hide a cough and looked down firmly at the patch of floor he was sweeping. A glance up at the hefty bald eagle on his perch caused him to quickly return his gaze to the straw; hawks were bad enough, but an eagle's stare penetrated to one's soul in a most uncomfortable manner.   
  
For once less taciturn, Jill continued to outline her plans for the rescue centre: another shed could be pressed into service, the field used for demos could have a partition, so they could take on a couple grazing animals, the RSPCA kept having ponies needing somewhere... They could do more shows if they had a couple more birds and an extra reliable hand of a weekend – over the holidays there were fairs on the outskirts of London, raking in the donations...   
  
"As I said, count me in!"   
  
"Come with me to one this weekend or next, call it training, then I'll pay you to be backup to me or Chris. Fifteen pounds a day, usually about six hours."  
  
“Fair enough.”   
  
“Any plans for the cash?”   
  
_Hide my ill-gotten gains..._ "Was thinking of a hi-fi of my own... But actually, it's my birthday next week. Be nice to treat a few friends, have a meal out."  
  
He'd eventually decided on an upmarket Chinese in Hampstead recommended by his father, though Alan's place had occurred to him – after wincing at _that_ menu’s prices, he dropped hints to his parents that they should take him there instead. One didn't turn eighteen every year, after all.   
  
“This is _good_ ,” Kathy exclaimed, persisting in her attempts to pick up lemon chicken with chopsticks. The others had all resorted to fork and spoon.   


“Ain't Mr Chong’s, that's for sure,” Sandra approved. “This is really ace, thanks mate. Though if you still want to go Berlin after, we’d best go soon, before the prices go up at midnight.”

  
“Good point.” He dissuaded Andrew and Kathy from ordering another bottle. "We can stop at an offie on the way."

  
Kathy grumbled mildly, but joined the others in thanking the slightly over-attentive staff and heading out into the drizzle. "It's gone eleven. Offies won't be open! Not serving, anyhow," she complained.   
  
Samir grinned at her. " _Bless._ ”

“What?”

“My sweet, naive, little darling!"  


" _What_?" She flicked two fingers at him, before leaning into Samir’s hug again. No-one they knew would be on this Hampstead side street; enjoy it until they reached the main road...   
  
"Wait till we're back near Cricklewood Broadway. Somewhere bit more... _L_ _ess_ respectable, shall we say? Though it might improve, now, now they've caught the ringleaders of the local smack trade..."   
  
“You what?” Erin, that time.

  
“You not seen the papers? There’s been women running this drugs empire, from Willesden to Kentish Town if not further. Sounds like one of them owned his bird place, too.” Samir gestured to Patrick with an elbow.  
  
Andrew chimed in, “Turned out, two elderly ladies and their younger relatives were importing most of the heroin coming into North London. _Millions_ of pounds worth. A couple tip-offs, and the sons squealed, but turned out the old aunt from the country was the brains behind it all...”  
  
“My goodness. I'd heard Maud – the owner – had been arrested for traces of coke and stuff, but..." He used the Dutch pronunciation. Could he mention he'd recognised Maudie? _Best not, ever..._

“A Maud and Enid Culver, apparently. Proper old lady names – you don’t get any young Enids, do you? And Enid’s sons and family, following the ma’s orders in selling, apparently a right violent lot, though it was the Aunt Maud who was getting hold in the first place. I keep thinking the name’s familiar, somehow…”

Patrick attempted to continue his nonchalant, tipsy, walk, his arm round Erin.   
  
Twenty minutes later, they passed a newsagent- _cum_ -off-licence on the A-road. Samir ushered them all in and beckoned, "Andrew, come to the counter with me. He's tall! Excuse me, sir. I am in need of a bottle of vodka."  
  
The small Asian man behind the counter was unfazed. "Double prices after eleven. And you has to have a bag."  
  
Samir nodded as if he’d expected this. "The square size, please."  
  
Mission accomplished, drinking continuing – all but Samir, who’d presented the bottle to Patrick with a ‘happy birthday, mate,’ - they headed to the queue outside Berlin.

"Erin, do your stuff."  
  
Erin led them up to Barry the black bouncer, who would recognise them. Most of the other door staff were new, perhaps covering the late shift under duress. Barry widened his eyes.   
  
"Hallo! Wasn't sure I'd see you here, any more."  
  
Erin was confused, and queried, "Why?" while Patrick's stomach began to clench – vodka on top of those perfectly-crispy banana fritters might have been a bad move. If Simon's suppliers couldn't find _him_ to deal for them any more, would they take it out on 'Alex'?   
  
"What with your brother going overseas and all. He came by, last week, said you were changing your name to... what was it, now? Aoife, Eden, something Irish..."   
  
"Oh yeah. Erin. Suits me, don't you think?" _Innocence itself._  
  
"Nice name. And _not_ to mention to anyone that you're any relation to him, if anyone came asking."  
  
"Of course." Her acting was impeccable, though _was_ her voice somewhat cold?   
  
"You'll have to queue with the plebs, I'm afraid, if I'm not around. The other security don't know you, so as I can't explain..."   
  
"I understand."  
  
"You all celebrating something?"   
  
She giggled. "Yes, it's my young friend's birthday. Would you believe, Patrick here is the youngest of us, and he's finally turned eighteen?"   
  
"Get away! Happy birthday mate, and glad no-one ever ID'd ya." Patrick was sure Barry knew perfectly well the others were all his age or younger, _all_ with a range of fake ID, thanks to penknives and clear nail varnish...   
  
Erin hissed at him as soon as they were inside the building and heading upstairs, "What’s he on about?  You _know,_ don’t you?"   
  
He had to say something. “I bumped into Simon last week and he said he'd got a job in New York. Suppose he doesn't want you mistaken for his sister, any more?” That didn’t make sense, even to him. “Sounds like he thinks someone might have it in for her, I guess?"  
  
“Why would they? Unless that stabbing _was_ to do with him after all?” She beheld him sternly. "Like I said, I can't deal with liars."  
  
_That could be a problem._ "Look, I can't say about his stuff. It's complicated. Yes, he did know the guy – complete low life, by all accounts – but he didn't do it. I gather there was a _long_ list of suspects... Oh, OK... Alex got into drugs, Simon got her out, some dealer scum didn't like the loss of her business, made threats, you get the general drift... So if the threatening types looked here… Just in case, I guess – he said the real Alex would never be seen dead in a place like this..."  
  
"Hm." She smoothed down some of her back-combed hair. "I _was_ thinking, this hair wasn't really me."  
  
Patrick reached up and stroked her hair into a shape more like her weekday self. "I'm sure you'll look great, whatever." She didn’t look convinced. He was on his very, very last chance...  
  
"Come dance!" Kathy wasn’t going to be denied.  
  
"Do I have to?"   
  
" _Yes,_ " Erin told him firmly. "Or we'll get the DJ to dedicate a song to you, after he's made _everyone_ sing Happy Birthday..."  
  
"You are a horrible woman. Remind me what I see in you, again?"  
  
The subsequent slow dance reminded him. Eighteen. Adult. He'd never expected, really, to make it that far – certainly his twelve-year-old self hadn’t, nor fourteen... He collapsed onto a sofa – stickier than ever, this late – and hummed as he started to fall asleep on Erin's shoulder.   
  
"Wozzat?"   
  
No-one could hear, with all the background noise. He sang to her.

 

" _I've lived my life and I'm only eighteen.  
I left the country for the city..._ "   
  
"Profound. Who's that? The Cure? Or someone even more pretentious?   
  
Patrick laughed. Erin's only real fault, in his eyes, was her mockery of proper music. "No-one at all pretentious. _That_ was the goddess herself. Dolly Parton."  
  
  
THE END.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the 90s, it really did turn out that the entire heroin trade across North London was run by two elderly ladies living in Kilburn and Willesden, controlling a very unpleasant gang of violent dealers. If only there'd been a tip-off a decade earlier.
> 
> And there you have it - a completed draft novel. I need to tidy up some of the earlier chapters from before I'd figured out Patrick's friends, but not planning major changes beyond bit more description and explanation here, trimming surplus verbiage there. Any suggestions from beta readers gratefully received, if not necessarily heeded!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving your kudos and comments - much appreciated.


End file.
